One More Round
by Viper Jock
Summary: Lieutenant O'Neil is at the end of the line, posted on an obsolete old warship waiting to be broken up for scrap. But when the Cylons launch their surprise attack, maybe, just maybe, he and his ship can go one more round.
1. The end of the line

Chapter 1 – The End of the Line

DREADNOUGHT "ENDURANCE"

TAURON COLONIAL RESERVE FLEET

07:30 HRS

"Frak," Lieutenant Rick O'Neil growled, watching the slowly expanding patch of red on his chin as it blended with the white of shaving foam.

The light above the mirror in his wash room was defective, flickering on and off seemingly at random. As a result, his morning shave had become a clandestine affair, using the brief moments of visibility to run the razor over as much skin as possible before the bulb gave out again. But with haste came mistakes, as his father had once said.

He sighed and dabbed at the bleeding cut. He leaned forward, looking at his reflection in the steamed mirror. Even features, a clean jaw line, a straight nose, bright green eyes, dark hair still shiny and wet from the shower. Thirty five years old, and going nowhere fast.

The light flickered, struggled vainly to stay lit, then went out again.

He walked through to his living quarters, wiping off the last of the soap from his face and doing his best to stop the bleeding. In the course of its long life, this room had housed admirals, fleet commanders, great men and women from the days when the Dreadnought had ruled the skies. Now it was home to a lowly Lieutenant, holder of a meaningless command at the ass end of nowhere. It smelled of damp and old leather and age. Like his washroom light, and everything else on this ship, it was faded and worn out.

He stood still for a moment, listening. Normally a big ship like this would be filled with the sounds of activity: the clang of boots on the steel deck outside, the hum of machinery, the faint vibration of the massive engines, the blare of tannoy announcements. But here there was almost nothing - just the slight crackle as his washroom light blinked on and off. The ship was cold and quiet.

Snatching up his officer's tunic, he opened the bulkhead and stepped out into the hallway for the short walk to the CIC, buttoning the jacket up as he went.

Four other officers were there manning the consoles, looking as bored as he felt. "Commander on deck," one of them said, with no particular enthusiasm.

O'Neil almost smiled at the notion. Commander - of what?

The Endurance was a dead ship. Well, almost dead, but not quite. She was part of the collection of ancient, obsolete warships that formed the Colonial Reserve Fleet - or Rust Row as it was more commonly known. She had lain amongst the rows of silent vessels for eighteen long years since her decommissioning; an immense brooding monument to war.

In a few more years she would probably be broken up for scrap or used for target practice, but for the time being she lingered on in a state of half-life, maintained by a skeleton crew of two hundred whose job it was to keep her vital systems going. The reactor was kept ticking over, providing enough energy to keep the lights on and the air breathable. The massive gun batteries were inspected every few months, to ensure the ship could be reactivated in the event of an emergency.

What kind of emergency could justify sending a sixty year old warship into battle, he had no notion. Anyway, even if she wasn't old and worn out, her very concept was obsolete.

Endurance was the last of the Dreadnoughts. Almost as big as a Battlestar, she traded the flight bays that made it possible to land aircraft in favour of more powerful anti-ship guns and heavier armour. The idea was based on getting in close and delivering massive crippling broadsides like the ancient sail-powered ships of the line. She had fought in the last Cylon War, claiming three Basestars even as the deficiencies in her design were becoming apparent. Dreadnoughts could give and take a lot of punishment, but without fighter support they were nothing more than armoured coffins. Only four remained, and they were all here on Rust Row.

"I have the conn," O'Neil said automatically, looking around the big darkened room. Most of the systems were powered down to conserve energy and prolong their lifespans.

"You've been in the wars," Second Lieutenant Daniel Munro remarked from behind the ship's main console. As the second most senior officer onboard, he acted as the ship's Executive Officer.

Short, stocky, and with his receding hair shaved to the bone, he was a couple of months away from leaving the military. He was intelligent and competent enough, but he had no real ambition to get anywhere in the fleet, which was probably why he'd ended up here. He'd joined up because the military offered to pay his way through college. Now that he was approaching the end of his minimum term, he intended to leave and go into business as a commercial cargo hauler. Easy money, as he reminded O'Neil incessantly.

"Cut myself shaving," O'Neil said.

"What do you shave with? A bread knife?"

O'Neil raised an eyebrow. "The moment I start giving a frak about your opinions, I'll ask for them, Danny," he said. "Now tell me, what's on the duty roster today?"

Munro grinned as he consulted the roster. "Let's see. We've got an engine work-up at thirteen hundred. Then..." His grin broadened. "We have a bunch of trainees coming aboard this afternoon. DRADIS technicians."

O'Neil rolled his eyes. As if pulling duty on this old bucket wasn't bad enough, they had to suffer the indignity of watching trainees poke around the CIC like it was some kind of adventure playground. Being a semi-retired vessel filled with mostly obsolete gear, Endurance was a perfect training ground for cadets to get their hands dirty. It didn't matter if they broke things - which they usually did - because it was considered expendable anyway.

"Great. Can't wait for them to start screwing things up." He poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn on the chart table. At least the coffee was usually good here. He turned to Samantha Tyler, the ship's communication's officer. "Any update on the spares list I sent off?"

It might have been a bad posting, but he still took his duties seriously. His first action on arriving aboard Endurance had been to do a complete inventory of the ship's systems and stores. He'd been shocked by the disparity between what was on listed paper and what actually existed in reality. The ship had been missing vital components, spares and tools that it desperately needed. Despite frequent requests for replacements, only a trickle of gear had arrived from the fleet depots. The official reply was always the same - it was needed elsewhere.

And he could guess where - the Battlestars. The damn things chewed up as many spare parts in peace time as the Dreadnoughts had used up in war. They were too big and too complicated.

"Nothing yet, sir," Tyler replied, confirming his suspicions.

Unlike most of the crew here, Samantha was actually pretty good at her job, and had a promising career ahead of her - it was just bad luck that she'd drawn duty here for three months. Still, successfully completing a tour in the Reserve Fleet without going insane generally boded well for your officer assessment.

"Another day in paradise," O'Neil said, taking a drink of his coffee. It was strong and bitter.

*****

The engine work-up went pretty much the same way these things always went - the reactor power was ramped up, the ship's massive sub-light engines were filled with energy, everyone crossed their fingers and prayed that they didn't overload and blow a hole in the side of the vessel, and then they were shut down. Endurance's old heart was still beating.

Alone in his quarters once more, O'Neil poured himself a brandy from the bottle he kept in his desk. Six months ago he would have balked at the idea of drinking on the job, but a lot could happen in six months. A hell of a lot.

Taking a drink of the potent alcohol, he powered up the computer terminal on the desk and checked his incoming messages. There was one, from Jessica. His heart leapt.

_Dear Rick, _

_I wish I could write to you with better news, and I know this is the last thing you probably want to hear right now, but I need to tell you something. I've met someone... who and how, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that I care for him, a lot. I think we really have something together._

_I'm sorry to have to tell you like this, but it's the only way I can reach you out there. I don't if you're upset, or angry, or something else, but be honest with yourself - you know things haven't been the same between us since... well, since what happened. This is something you need to work out yourself. I can't follow you any more. _

_Goodbye, _

_Jessica. _

O'Neil sighed and closed his eyes. He'd seen this coming. In some part of his mind, he'd known she was slipping away from him, but to see it there, so cold and clinical on the monitor, was the final confirmation. The woman he'd been with for two years now was out of his life. For good.

He took another drink, a deeper one this time.

Half an hour later, O'Neil emerged from his quarters and strode into the CIC, in a foul mood. The DRADIS technicians had arrived and were being shown around the CIC - six of them, four men and two women. All young, all eager to learn, and all curious about the old relic they found themselves aboard. Robert Greene, the ship's own DRADIS operator, had removed one of the access panels on a terminal so they could take a look inside.

Ignoring them, O'Neil returned to the chart table.

"You okay?" Munro asked.

"Never better," he lied. "You get that update on Gun Battery Five?"

Munro shook his head. "The gun captain hasn't reported in yet."

"What's the matter with him? He's had three frakking hours," O'Neil said through clenched teeth. He was in a bad mood anyway, and the alcohol was making it worse. "I could have _built_ a frakking gun battery in that time."

The younger man saw the dangerous gleam in his eye. "I'll get an update from him ASAP."

"You tell him if I don't get a full report in twenty minutes, I'm coming down myself to kick his lazy ass off this ship." He turned and looked around the room at the unlit monitors and the flickering lights, sick of being here in the middle of nowhere. Sick of this ship, sick of fighting bureacracy and deteriorating equipment, sick of this pointless duty, sick of the Colonial Fleet.

At that moment, there was a loud bang, a shower of sparks, and suddenly the room was plunged into darkness.

"What was that?" a voice called.

"What's going on?" another shouted.

"Calm down! It's okay." A moment later, the lights flickered back on to reveal Greene glaring at one of the cadets with long-suffering patience. "And that's what happens when you short out a main bus breaker, Cadet Walker."

"I'm sorry, sir," the young man said, blushing. A few of his comrades laughed at his mistake. No harm done. Anyway, it was an old ship. Who gave a frak what they broke?

It was too much for him. Before he knew it, O'Neil was off and moving. He rounded the chart table, strode across the CIC, past the navigation consoles and up to the DRADIS terminals where the small knot of cadets were standing.

"Gods damn it! What the hell are you doing to my ship?" he demanded, boiling with rage.

The cadet, a tall young man with blonde hair, stared at him, face frozen in shock and fear. "I... I'm..." he stammered.

"You don't know, do you? Just another useless cadet who can't tie their shoe laces without help. Gods, who'd you frak to get this job?" O'Neil shook his head. "You stay the hell away from my DRADIS consoles until you can tell your ass from your elbow!"

With that, he turned and strode out of the room.

*****

_Therefore, I hereby resign my commission, effective immediately. _

_Yours sincerely, _

_First Lieutenant Richard O'Neil_

He stared at the words on the computer screen - not much to say for a ten year career, but there it was. The message was written, and a single press of a button would send it off to Fleet Headquarters at Caprica.

He was done with military service. The rest of his career would be assignments just like this one, he knew. Maybe after years of dutiful service, he might graduate to supply ships or refuellers, but he'd never again serve aboard a Battlestar. He'd rather have nothing, make a clean break and start a new life. Maybe he'd follow Munro's example and get into the hauling business.

He took another drink of the brandy, grimacing as it lit a fire inside him. It was good stuff - strong, rich and expensive. But it brought him no comfort tonight.

He was about to send the message when there came a knock at his door. Frowning, he switched the monitor off.

"Come!" he called, not bothering to put his jacket back on.

The bulkhead door opened, and to his surprise, Samantha Tyler was standing there.

O'Neil rose from his chair. "Sam. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if I could have a word with you. In private."

He frowned, but beckoned for her to come forward. "Come on in."

She stepped over the threshold and closed the steel door behind her, then walked into the centre of the room and just stood there, looking around with a mixture of curiosity a strange element of sadness, as if she could see O'Neil's predecessors mourning what had become of their quarters.

"You said you wanted to talk," he prompted.

The young woman took a deep breath and raised her chin a little. "I came to see if you were all right after... what happened earlier. You were pretty steamed up in there."

"Yeah. I was."

"You want to tell me about it?"

He sighed. "Take a seat."

The young woman walked over to the worn leather seating area and lowered herself down, as if testing her weight. O'Neil refilled his glass and held the bottle up. "Drink?"

"It's a little early for that, don't you think?"

He shrugged and took a drink. "Frak it. I'm off the clock." He sat on the edge of his desk and looked at her for a moment. "Let me ask you something. You always want to be in the service?"

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I guess so."

"Why?"

"When I was eight, my dad took me to see a Battlestar for the first time. It looked so big, so powerful and safe. I wanted to be a part of that."

"So did I. I used to sit out in the yard at night, staring up at the stars and imagining being up there." His eyes held a wistful look for a moment, then he blinked and it was gone. "Now here I am." He looked around the spartan room, at the flickering light in his wash room. "Not quite what I imagined when I was a kid." He shook his head. "This is no way for a ship to end up."

She shrugged. "Better than being scrapped."

"Is it? At least then, it's over," he said. "It's the end. Endurance is just a curiosity now - something for cadets to poke their heads around in. She's a ship of war. She should go out on her feet, fighting, not like this. Not lingering on with no purpose. She deserves better."

"Mind if I ask _you_ a question?"

He took a gulp of brandy. "Shoot."

"How the frak did you end up out here?"

He grinned, amused by her forthrightness. "That's a long story."

"My next watch doesn't start for two hours."

Before he could say anything further, the intercom on the wall buzzed, its tone harsh and demanding. Setting down his drink, he yanked the chunky receiver out of its cradle. "Yeah?"

"Rick, it's Danny. I think you'd better get to CIC right now." There was a hard edge to the man's voice that he'd never heard before during their long days of maintenance and sheduled drills.

"On my way."

Thirty seconds later he hurried into the control room, with Samantha right behind him. Unlike the barely concealed boredom of before, CIC was alive with crewmen, all clamouring for information. It was chaos.

"What's going on, Danny?" he asked. "Someone pull another breaker?"

Munro looked at him, eyes wide. "We're under attack."

O'Neil might have laughed if he hadn't seen the younger man's face. "What? By who? The Cylons?"

"We don't know. All we know is we're under attack and taking heavy losses. At least a quarter of the fleet's been destroyed in the opening wave. Admiral Nagala's transferred his flag to Atlantia. Picon Shipyard's been hit, and we're getting reports of nuclear detonations on the surface of Caprica."

"My Gods," Samantha gasped.

"This had better not be a joke, Danny," O'Neil warned.

"Listen to it yourself." He moved over to the communications console and flicked a couple of switches. Immediately the room was filled with the sounds of Colonial military transmissions.

"This is Triton. We're losing power! Electrical system failures across the whole ship... need air support... What happened to Alpha Squadron? Get... Can't get a firing solution... Multiple missile hits... We can't take many more... Damage control! Decompression forward... Losing structural integrity... She's going down! My Gods..."

"Shut it off," O'Neil ordered. He'd heard enough. The chilling voices disappeared, plunging the CIC into silence.

"What are we going to do, sir?" one of the crewmen asked after several moments.

"My Gods, my family's on Caprica," another said, face blank with shock. With that, the CIC erupted in shouting as panic started to take hold.

"Hey! Quiet down!" O'Neil yelled. "_Quiet down_!"

The room feel silent, young officers staring at him in shocked silence.

"I know what you all must be feeling," he began. "Believe me, I'm feeling the same thing. We all have friends and family out there, but we're still Colonial officers and we have a job to do. Right now I need you to put those thoughts aside until we get through this. Take your stations, please."

"But what are we going to do, sir?" a young ensign asked.

O'Neil looked over at Munro, his heart pounding. What were they going to do? They were at war, and stranded aboard a decomissioned ship. What _could_ they do? Endurance was in no kind of shape for fighting a war. She was in no kind of shape for doing much of anything.

And then, just like that, his own words, spoken in such haste only minutes before, replayed in his head.

_She's a ship of war. She should go out on her feet, fighting, not like this. Not lingering on with no purpose. She deserves better._

"Give me One MC." He picked up the intercom for a ship-wide broadcast, not even sure what he was doing, or what he was going to say. He looked around the room, at the pale, frightened faces waiting for him to say something that would make everything better.

"Crew of the Endurance, this is Lieutenant O'Neil, acting ship's commander," he began. "We've just received word that our military forces, and the Colonies, are under heavy attack - we don't know who or why. As of this moment, we are at war." He paused, letting that statement hang in the air for a few moments. "Fleet Headquarters was first to be hit, but it's inevitable they'll target us sooner or later. We can't let that happen. I want all bridge officers to report to the CIC immediately. Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is _not_ a drill. I repeat, this is _not _a drill."

He clicked the microphone off and replaced it on its stand, then turned to Munro. "What was our projected timeline for combat reactivation?"

The younger man frowned. "Six weeks, give or take."

"We don't have that long, Danny."

Such was his shock and surprise, he actually laughed a little.

O'Neil's sharp look soon silenced it. "I'm not kidding. Move."


	2. Battle stations

Chapter 2 – Battle Stations

"Fire up that main board! Let's move it, people! They're not paying us by the hour!" Munro yelled, striding around the CIC like a force of nature. "Harper, you ready over there?"

"I think so, sir. All the connections are in. It should work."

O'Neil held his breath. They'd powered up _Endurance's_ various systems from time to time for testing purposes, but firing the whole thing up in sequence was very different from switching on the odd console. There was no telling if the ship's old electrical grid would handle it.

"Come on, old girl," he whispered.

Munro nodded. "Hit it."

Harper flicked the main breaker switch. There was a loud hiss, and the lights in the CIC dimmed. Nobody moved or spoke. If they'd blown the grid, they could kiss goodbye to any chance of leaving the shipyard.

Then, mercifully, the lights returned to normal. A low hum began to spread through the room as old computers whirred back into life, monitor screens flickering on, status boards lighting up. The ship was returning to life.

"It worked," Munro said, looking both impressed and surprised. "DRADIS is coming up."

O'Neil nodded. "I want all stations to report in as soon as possible." He turned to Tyler. "Get in touch with Fleet Headquarters. Find out what the frak is going on. And contact the other Reserve ships – tell them what we're planning and advise them to do the same thing."

"I'm on it, sir."

He returned to the chart table, eyes quickly scanning the schematic readouts in front of him. There were still a lot of red lights across the board – old systems waiting to be brought back online. Powering up a Dreadnought wasn't as easy as just flicking a few switches.

Munro moved closer, lowering his voice. "Mind if I ask what you're planning to do?"

That was the question. He really had no idea what they would do when, or if, they managed to get _Endurance_ going. Where would they go? What could they do?

"We try to link up with any Colonial forces we can find, then go looking for trouble," he replied, in absence of a better plan.

"You can't be serious. This ship belongs in a museum, and we've got less than a skeleton crew aboard…"

O'Neil fixed him with a hard glare. "We're at war, Danny. And last time I checked, this was a Colonial warship."

"Thirty years ago. Now she's just an old hulk waiting to be broken up."

"She might be old, but she's still got one more round left in her. Anyway, she's all we have right now. If you've got a better idea, I'm wide open."

Munro stared at him, silent.

"I need your help on this one, Danny," O'Neil implored him. "I need an XO that'll back me up. Are you in or out?"

The younger man chewed his lip. "All right, I'm in."

O'Neil nodded. "Good. First thing we need is ammunition for the main guns. Once we're out of here, our first port of call should be Ragnar Anchorage."

Munro shook his head. "No need. There's a mountain of shells right here in the fleet arsenal."

O'Neil frowned. "You're kidding."

"They don't make shells for Dreadnoughts anymore, so there was no reason to move them to Ragnar when they were offloaded twenty years ago. They're still here."

He couldn't believe his luck. That was the first thing that had gone right all day. "Get a team together, and take a squad of Marines with you. Grab as much as you can and bring it back here."

Munro nodded. "All right."

Ten minutes later, the reinforced bulkhead leading to Tauron Shipyard's Heavy Arsenal was hauled open and twenty Colonial soldiers rushed in.

"Okay, let's move!" Munro shouted, rushing between the dusty boxes of artillery shells. "Get those hydraulic lifts fired up!"

In _Endurance's_ CIC, O'Neil was pacing back and forth as technicians fought to bring the ship to combat readiness. It was a slow process, hampered by poor training and old equipment, but gradually the status board was changing from red to green.

"Engine room reports reactor power at fifty percent and rising," the chief engineer reported. "Fuel levels are about sixty percent."

O'Neil nodded. "Very good. What about FTL?"

The man shook his head. "It's frakked. Inertial calibration is all over the place. We could end up anywhere."

That wasn't so good. Dreadnoughts weren't known for their speed or manouverability at sub-light. "Keep working on it." He turned to the DRADIS console. "Mr Greene, any DRADIS contacts?"

"No, sir."

That was something. But how long would it stay that way?

"Weapons, where are we on rearmament?"

"The first shipment's aboard now, sir. We've got shells for the main battery and secondary guns."

"Any missiles?"

"No, sir. Nukes are stored at a separate facility."

O'Neil shook his head – frakking Fleet. "Distribute it out as soon as its aboard. Main weapons have priority."

"Yes, sir."

"Message coming in from _Endeavour_, sir," Tyler reported.

"Put it on the horn." O'Neil picked up the microphone. "This is _Endurance_ Actual."

"Rick, this is Vince Taleri. I heard you were planning a little joyride. Want some company?"

Despite the situation, O'Neil grinned to himself. Taleri was a good man, a career fleet officer acting as commander of _Endeavour's_ caretaker crew. "Sounds like a plan, sir. What's your situation?"

"We're itching to get into the fight. We're taking on ammunition and spooling up our engines right now. We can be underway in thirty minutes."

_Endeavour_ was _Endurance's_ sister ship, and ships of the same class always had names starting with the same letter. He had to admit, they stood a much better chance with a second Dreadnought to back them up.

"Any word on _Vengeance_ and _Valiant_?" Two Dreadnoughts were good, but four would be the makings of a real combat force.

"No good. _Valiant's_ engines are in pieces and _Vengeance's_ gun batteries are frakked – no way can they be ready in time. We're taking their personnel aboard. I'd suggest we split their crews between us."

"No problem. We've got plenty of work for them." A fully operational Dreadnought had a crew of more than two thousand. With scarcely two hundred men at their disposal, they were seriously undermanned. "Any word from Fleet Headquarters?"

"Nothing, but we know _Atlantia's_ been destroyed – it's every ship for herself right now. We've caught scattered reports of equipment malfunctions and power failures, something to do with their computer systems and the CNP. The Battlestars are dropping like flies. More than half the fleet is down."

"Gods help us." O'Neil clenched his teeth. Thousands of his people were dying by the minute, and he was powerless to do anything about it. "What about the Colonies?"

"Caprica, Virgon, and Picon are ash. They've been hit by dozens of high-yield nukes. It won't be long until they hit the lesser colonies."

"Including us," O'Neil concluded grimly.

"Looks that way. Hang in there, _Endurance_. I'll advise when we're ready to move. _Endeavour_ Actual, out."

O'Neil replaced the phone in its cradle. There was nothing more he could do for now but wait.

Twenty anxious minutes later, another call came through from _Endeavour_. "This is _Endeavour_ Actual. We're about to withdraw from our moorings. Hold station until we're clear."

"Roger that, _Endeavour_." Damn, that was fast. Taleri must have been working his crew like slaves.

O'Neil and the rest of the CIC crew watched the DRADIS screen as the huge mass of the _Endeavour_ moved away from her berth, slowly at first, then gathering speed as her momentum increased. Within a minute, she was clear of her moorings and out in open space.

They'd waited long enough. It was time to leave.

"Patch me through to Munro," O'Neil ordered, then picked up another phone. "Danny, this is Rick. You need to pack it up right now. We're out of time."

"But –"

"No arguments. Double-time it back here."

"Roger that. On the way."

O'Neil replaced the phone, then turned to the helmsman on the other side of the room. "Helm, prepare to get underway. Standby to retract moorings."

"Aye, sir."

Suddenly Greene cried out a warning. "DRADIS contacts! Two Cylon Baseships just jumped in. Range… fifteen thousand metres and closing."

"Frak." Heart pounding, O'Neil reached for One MC. "All hands, man your battle stations. Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is not a drill!"

"Sir, we have to undock now," Greene said.

"Not yet," O'Neil shot back. "We've still got men on the station."

"And we've got four hundred men on board," Greene reminded him. "It's them or all of us."

O'Neil grabbed the phone in sweating hands. "Danny, where are you?"

"Almost there! Twenty seconds!" He could hear the man's laboured breathing as he ran.

"Cylon Baseships closing to twelve thousand metres!"

"We're sitting ducks here!" a young ensign yelled.

O'Neil rounded on them. "No one gets left behind! You hear me? No one!"

Suddenly alarms started to blare out as several small dots detached themselves from the much larger DRADIS image of the nearest Baseship.

"Missiles inbound! I've got a radiation alarm. They're nukes!"

O'Neil's heart leapt. "Weapons, can you get a track with the Point Defence Guns?"

The weapons officer shook his head, his face pale. "Gunnery control's still offline, sir."

There was nothing more they could do. They had been caught in the most vulnerable position imaginable, and they were going to get hit. "All hands, brace for impact!"


	3. Fighting back

Chapter 3 – Fighting Back

O'Neil clutched the chart table tight as alarms blared and the DRADIS missile contacts closed in. There was nothing they could do but watch. He glanced across the room at Samantha, wishing he could say or do something to reassure her, to apologise for failing them all. There was nothing. His eyes locked with hers, and a look of sad understanding passed between them.

Then, at that moment, the blips on the screen lit up, and promptly vanished. At the DRADIS station, Greene's eyes opened wide in amazement. "Gods damn! Missiles intercepted!"

O'Neil's heart leapt. "What? How?"

"It's _Endeavour_! She shot them down!"

An instant later, a voice blared out over the CIC speakers. "This is _Endeavour_ Actual. We've got your back. We'll cover you until you're clear."

Outside, the massive warship hovered a thousand metres above her sister, rows of Point Defence Guns trained defiantly on the Baseships bearing down on them. A Dreadnought's inability to launch Vipers was partly compensated for by their unusually heavy anti-aircraft armament. They were capable of throwing a storm of metal at incoming missiles, but even this wasn't enough to protect them forever.

O'Neil's hands were shaking as he pressed the transmit button. "Roger that, _Endeavour_. Damn good timing!"

"Save the champagne until we're out of this mess. _Endeavour_ Actual, standing by."

O'Neil clicked the phone off. "Helm, retract all moorings and prepare to undock. Engine room, we'll need everything you have in a minute."

"Yes, sir. Sublight engines standing by."

Moments later, a faint shudder passed through the ship as the docking clamps holding it in place were disengaged.

The ship's intercom crackled. "This is Munro. We're all aboard. Hatches secured!"

Relief surged through O'Neil. About Gods-damned time.

"Baseships closing to ten thousand metres," Greene called out. "They're scrambling raiders."

"Full reverse thrust. Now," O'Neil ordered.

Once more, the ship vibrated as her bow thrusters kicked in, pushing her away from the berth that had been her home for the last eighteen years. O'Neil could have sworn he heard the hull groan ever so slightly, as if the ship herself was relieved to finally be free from her prison.

"We're clear and free to navigate," the helmsman reported, looking both elated and terrified to be at the controls of the immense ship. He'd never piloted anything bigger than a freighter. "What are your orders, sir?"

Despite himself, O'Neil couldn't quite suppress the same feelings of excitement. This command which had been so meaningless until a couple of hours ago now pressed down on him like a physical weight. The powerful warship was at his command. Old and tired she might have been, but she was his.

"Bring us up on _Endeavour's_ starboard side," he ordered, trying not to get too excited. In all probability, it was going to be a short command. "Combat formation."

"Yes, sir."

He turned to Ensign Harper, who was manning the Fire Control Centre. "Gunnery Control, I need those main batteries online now."

The stocky young man was already on the phone to his gun captains. The lights on the status board behind him were slowly changing from red to green to indicate combat readiness. "Working on it, sir."

The deck beneath O'Neil's feet trembled as the main engines rumbled with increased power. He picked up the telephone. "_Endeavour_, this is _Endurance_ Actual. We're clear and ready for action. What are your orders?"

"Simple attack pattern, Rick," Taleri decided, resolutely unflappable under pressure as always. O'Neil could hear alarms blaring in the background. "We go right at them, then turn broadside and hit them with the main batteries. Stay with us, and concentrate your fire on the nearest Baseship when the shooting starts."

Given the desperate situation, there was no time to formulate a more sophisticated attack strategy. Fortunately there was no need – they had the firepower, and they intended to use it. The Dreadnoughts had been designed for frontal assaults, and that was exactly what they were about to be used for.

"Roger that, _Endeavour_. Good hunting. Out." O'Neil turned to the rest of the officers and ensigns in CIC. "You heard the man. Let's go to work!"

He was just laying down the phone when Munro struggled into the CIC, sweating and out of breath. "Nice of you to join us, Danny," O'Neil quipped.

"Had to stop for a coffee," the younger man gasped, wiping his forehead as he took his place on the other side of the chart table. "What are we doing?"

O'Neil cocked an eyebrow. "We're about to find out how tough this old girl is. Helm, lay in an attack course for the nearest Baseship and engage. All ahead flank."

"Yes, sir."

Together, the two ancient behemoths advanced on the dark looming shapes of the Cylon Baseships, massed gun batteries at the ready, charging headlong into battle just as they'd been designed to do. Even as they closed in, raiders began to pour from the hangar bays of both Cylon vessels, peeling away before turning to close in on the Dreadnoughts, their red eyes gleaming in eager anticipation of the slaughter that was to come.

"Cylon raiders launching," Greene reported.

"How many?" the XO asked.

"Lots – more than I can count. They're coming right for us."

O'Neil glanced across the CIC. "Gunnery Control, please tell me you've got our weapons online." It was going to be a short battle otherwise.

The young man's hand was shaking, but he nodded. The board behind him was green. "Gun captains report main and secondary batteries ready in all respects, sir."

"Good. Stand by to fire."

"Cylon raiders closing to three thousand metres," Greene reported. "They're launching missiles."

Munro looked at him across the table. He didn't say anything, because there wasn't anything to say. They were about to go into battle, and in a couple of minutes they might well be dead.

O'Neil nodded to himself. "Fire at will."

Harper relayed the order. "All batteries commence fire!"

An instant later, _Endurance's_ Point Defence Weapons were unleashed, spraying tracer and fragmentation rounds at the incoming raiders. A dozen were cut down in the opening salvo, their hulls blasted apart in gouts of flame and bloody organic matter. _Endeavour_ added her firepower to the barrage a few seconds later, scattering the opening wave, which peeled off in confusion, losing more ships as they attempted to reform.

And yet, even this storm of fire wasn't enough to stop the raiders entirely. Missiles streaked in, slamming into _Endurance's_ frontal armour and detonating with silent flashes, while cannon fire traced across the void to ricochet off the hull. But still the two Dreadnoughts ploughed on, heedless of the danger as they closed in on their adversaries.

In the CIC, O'Neil felt the shudder of the first impacts. The lights flickered as more missiles detonated against the outer hull. Fine streams of dust fell from air ducts above, dislodged by the vibrations.

"My Gods," the helmsman breathed, sitting open mouthed as he listened to the ferocious pounding they were taking. The hull groaned under the impacts, but held firm.

"Steady as she goes, ensign," O'Neil said, keeping his eye on the DRADIS screens as they closed in on the Baseships.

"Range down to five thousand, sir," Greene reported.

Munro flinched as a particularly loud boom echoed through the ship. "We're really in the thick of it now."

"Gunnery Control, ready main batteries. Let me know as soon as you have a firing solution."

"Yes, sir." Harper turned and spoke into his phone. "Battery Five, switch your targeting to Sector Seven."

"Baseships launching more missiles," Greene warned.

"Nukes?" Munro asked.

"Don't think so. I'm not seeing any radiation spikes."

O'Neil shook his head. "We're too close for nukes. They'd risk destroying themselves at the same time."

Greene gripped his console tight, bracing himself. "Impact."

The warship shuddered violently, metal creaking and groaning as the heavy anti-ship missiles detonated against the forward armour. O'Neil was forced to clutch at the chart table to steady himself as the CIC was rocked by the impacts. A circuit blew near the DRADIS console, sending out a shower of sparks.

"Damage report?" he asked.

Damage control was being manned by what he assumed was one of the crew members brought aboard from the crippled Dreadnoughts. She was tall and slender, with long blonde hair tied back to keep it out of her eyes. "The hull's still sound," she reported, vivid blue eyes scanning her screens. "We've got power fluctuations forward of Frame Seven, but I think we're okay."

"Gun Battery Twelve is out of action," Harper said. "There's a fire in the ammunition hoist."

"Get a damage control team down there. If the fire spreads, vent the magazine," O'Neil added. A magazine explosion would destroy half the ship.

"What's our range to the first Baseship?" Munro asked.

"Just under four thousand metres, sir. I think they're about to launch another salvo."

O'Neil grabbed the telephone and pressed the transmit button. "This is _Endurance_ Actual. We're in firing range."

"Roger that, _Endurance_," Taleri replied. "You go left, we'll head right. Break now."

"Affirmative." O'Neil turned to his helmsman. "Helm, hard to port! Standby, guns."

The starboard manuevering thrusters roared, and Endurance swung left in a wide arc, her secondary armament still spitting fire as raiders swarmed around her. As she did so, her heavy calibre guns were at last exposed to the enemy Baseship.

"This should be interesting," Munro said under his breath.

"Let's see how _they_ like it." O'Neil grabbed the One MC. "All hands, brace for main battery fire!"

Harper looked up from his computer screen. "Sir, I have a firing solution!" he reported, having to yell to be heard over the shouts of the other officers in the CIC.

"Fire!"

Harper turned and shouted into his phone. "Main battery, open fire!"

_Endurance_ shuddered as the entire starboard arsenal was unleashed simultaneously, dozens of heavy calibre guns throwing their projectiles at the nearest Baseship. With no atmospheric drag to slow them down, the shells continued on at supersonic velocity until they struck home.

The smooth, graceful outer hull of the Cylon ship erupted in flame as multiple projectiles tore through it, hurling wreckage outward into space. Explosive decompression added to the destruction, tearing loose equipment and Cylon bodies as internal bulkheads gave way.

The Baseship lurched away to starboard, trailing smoke and flaming wreckage, desperately trying to escape the remorseless pounding, only to be hit by similar punishment from _Endeavour_ on the other side. The second Dreadnought's main arsenal finished what _Endurance_ had begun, and within thirty seconds the Baseship was engulfed in flame as its magazines detonated, destroying it utterly.

As soon as the news was relayed via the DRADIS screens, Endurance's CIC erupted in cheers and wild applause. They had held their emotions in check so far, forcing themselves not to think about the family and friends they'd all lost in the Cylon attack, but there was no holding back now. They were taking their revenge at last, and they wanted more.

"Take that, you son of a bitch," O'Neil said under his breath as he watched the Basestar's image disintegrating on the screen. Now it was two against one - good odds by anyone's standards. Hope and elation surged through him. They might do it. Against all the odds, they might just come out on top of this one.

"This is _Endeavour_ Actual. Good shooting, _Endurance_!" Taleri cried over the radio.

O'Neil picked up the phone. "Just making up for lost time, sir. Now let's go after the other one."

"Roger that. We'll take the right flank."

"Helm, bring us about! Bearing on the second Baseship," O'Neil ordered. "Mr Harper, think your gun captains can manage the same again?"

"Say the word and we'll nail those mother frakkers, sir," the young man promised. There was a light in his eyes that O'Neil had never seen before.

O'Neil grinned. "That's what I want to hear. Shift your targeting to the second Baseship and fire when ready."

Rumbling past the flaming wreckage of the first Cylon warship, the two Dreadnoughts swung around and launched themselves at their prey. Raiders swarmed around them, pouring in cannon and missile fire, but unable to slow them down.

"We need to coordinate our secondary fire with _Endeavour_," O'Neil said. "These raiders are going to wear us down if we don't do something."

"I'd give my right frakking arm for a couple of Viper squadrons," Munro said, wiping away the dust that was collecting on the chart table. A Battlestar added into the mix would have made them a formidable combat force indeed.

O'Neil looked at him across the table. "You and me both."

"Gods damn it! Two more Baseships just jumped in," Greene yelled.

O'Neil's head snapped around. "Where?"

"Behind us. Nine thousand metres and closing. They're launching missiles!"

"Guns, can you intercept?" Munro asked.

Harper shook his head. "No way, sir. The tracking computers can't keep up with all the targets."

"Switch to manual fire!"

"Yes, sir!"

Tracer fire sprayed from _Endurance's _Point Defence Weapons, scything through the void in a last desperate show of defiance. One missile was cut down, followed by a second, their delicate casings blasted apart by the high explosive rounds. But the fire was erratic as individual gun commanders fired manually. There were gaps in the defence, and inevitably, one missile made it through.

_Endurance_ lurched violently as the nuclear warhead detonated against the outer hull. In the CIC, O'Neil was thrown sideways by the force of the impact, losing his balance as the lights went out and panicked screams echoed through the room, mixing with the groan of straining metal and the sharp crack of circuits blowing out.

His head struck the deck hard and pain exploded through his brain. His last sight was of Munro clinging to the chart table, blood flowing from a cut above his eye, then his vision swam and he blacked out.


	4. Rolling with the punches

Chapter 4 – Rolling with the Punches

CAPRICA CITY

ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER

_Gasping, heart pumping, ignoring the sting of sweat in his eyes and the ache in his muscles, O'Neil moved in against his opponent, ducked a clumsy right hook and responded with a sharp cross that sent the other fighter staggering back. The crowd roared in excitement, rising to their feet as one, sensing a knockout. _

_O'Neil sensed it too. Their roaring and screaming filled his body, coursed through his veins, investing his tired muscles with new strength. Before the other fighter could recover, he rushed forward and drove a right hook into the man's flank, followed by an uppercut that landed flush to the jaw. _

_The man was against the ropes now, gloves up, arms tight by his sides as the pummelling continued. O'Neil's hands ached with the jarring impacts of bone against flesh. Yet still he wouldn't go down. _

_What's the matter with him? O'Neil wondered. He was beaten. He was up against someone far younger, stronger and fitter than himself. Why didn't he just go down and call it a day? He was at the end of his career anyway. He was just making it harder for both of them. Why? _

_Why?_

_He was drawing back his arm for another punch when the ring bell sounded, ending the round. Reluctantly he turned away from the old fighter and walked back to his corner. _

O'Neil opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the roof of the CIC as the world swam into bleary focus. His first thought was that the place was darker than it should have been. His second was that the air was thick with acrid smoke.

And then, just like that, his consciousness returned.

His head was pounding. He reached up and touched the swelling at his temple, feeling the warm wetness of blood. He must have cracked it off the steel deck when he fell. Why? Of course, the nuke! They'd been hit. What was happening? Was the ship still in one piece? How long had he been out?

With great effort, he hauled himself to his feet, staggered slightly but managed to keep his balance.

The place was in chaos. Crewmen were running back and forth, alarms were blaring and there was an electrical fire over by the gunnery control station, sparks and smoke belching from behind instrument panels.

"Damage report!" he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the din.

The blonde woman was still at her station, pale and frightened, but doing her job. "We've been hit by a nuke."

"Tell me something I _don't_ know!"

She shot him an angry look. "We've got fire warnings on decks five, six and seven. Structural damage in frames twenty-two to twenty-five. They took a direct hit – buckled in the armour."

"Are we venting atmosphere?"

She consulted the status board. "I don't think so."

Munro shook his head in disbelief. "The armour belt held. She's one tough old tub."

"Batteries Eight through Twelve are out of action," Harper reported. "All their gun crews have been killed or wounded. We need medical teams down there."

"We need to put these fires out first," the blonde woman shot back.

"Frak you!" Harper snapped. "They need our help. They're dying down there."

Her vivid blue eyes bored into him. "Who isn't?"

"Hey! Calm down, both of you!" Munro yelled. "Damage control, seal off the damaged sections and vent them to space. We need to put these fires out."

"There might be crewmen alive in there!" she protested.

"And if they are, they'll be dying from radiation poisoning. If those fires reach the magazines, we'll lose the entire ship. Vent it, now! That's an order!"

With one hand pressed against his bleeding head wound, O'Neil turned his attention to what was happening outside. "Helm, alter course to… Helmsman!"

There was no response. The helmsman was slumped over his console, blood staining the computer screens.

"Frak! Tyler, take over the helm!"

Swearing under her breath, the young woman pulled the dead helmsman aside and took his seat, staring in shock at the bloodied controls in front of her.

"Bring us about. Form up on _Endeavour_." Looking up at the flickering DRADIS screen, he was surprised to see that the other Dreadnought had withdrawn some distance.

"Sir," Greene said, staring at the DRADIS screens.

The tone of his voice alone was enough to get O'Neil's attention. "What is it?"

"It's _Endeavour_, sir. She's been hit."

Six thousand metres away, _Endeavour_ drifted in a wide circle, listing to starboard and trailing smoke and flames from her damaged engine array. Her guns were still flashing defiantly, but without maneuvering ability, she was wandering uncontrolled through a firestorm.

O'Neil grabbed the phone. "Vince, what's your situation over there?" he asked, forgetting communication protocols.

The reply was crackly and garbled. "We've lost helm control – took a direct hit to the starboard engine pod. We're locked in a starboard turn."

"Baseships moving to flank _Endeavour_, sir," Greene said, staring at the screen in horror.

They were closing in to finish her off, O'Neil knew. "Hang in there," he said. "We're on our way. Engine room, give us everything you have!"

"Forget it, Rick. You can't take on three Baseships by yourself." The grim tone of Taleri's voice said it all. "Get out of here. We'll hold them off as long as we can."

"Frak that," O'Neil snapped. "We're not leaving you here."

A muted boom sounded in the background as _Endeavour_ took another heavy hit. "Leave! That's an order! You can't do any more good here, Rick. You're all that's left. Please… go."

O'Neil stared around the smoke-filled CIC, at the shorted-out computers and bloodied crewmen desperately trying to get their systems back online. Taleri was right – there was nothing they could do against three Baseships.

"Gods damn it. All right." He swallowed hard. "It's been an honour, sir."

"The honour was mine. Good luck, _Endurance_. And good hunting. _Endeavour_ Actual, out."

More missiles streaked in from both sides of _Endeavour_, hitting the old ship again and again. Her hull was thick and as heavily armoured as any Colonial vessel had ever been, but even she couldn't withstand this pummelling for long. Plumes of fire blossomed from the ruptured hull, ejecting smoke and debris out into space.

Her main armament flashed one more time, the shells tearing into the nearest Baseship, before the fires reached her magazines and she exploded. A gigantic fireball erupted from the forward section, rapidly blasting apart the hull as it expanded to consume the entire ship.

For a moment, _Endurance's_ CIC went silent as the crew stared at the DRADIS screen. Their sister ship was gone. They were alone.

"Baseships coming about, sir," Greene said. "They're closing to finish us off."

"What are your orders, sir?" Samantha asked, glancing across the smoke-filled room at O'Neil.

The man said nothing, just stared at the screen, hardly believing what had just happened.

"Sir! What are your orders?"

O'Neil blinked, coming back to himself, then turned his eyes on the crew in CIC. Each of them was looking at him, waiting for him to make the decisions that would get them out of this.

"Mr Harper, what's the status of our weapons?" he asked quietly.

Harper shook his head. "No good, sir. Fire control's offline, and half the gun batteries are out of action."

O'Neil sighed and rested his hands on the chart table for support. "Spool up the FTL drive. Prepare to jump the ship."

"Rick, we can't," Munro protested. "The navigation system's frakked. We could end up anywhere."

"Baseships launching missiles!" Greene warned.

O'Neil turned to face his XO. "Doesn't really matter now, does it? Anywhere is better than here."

The younger man stared at him for a moment, then nodded and rushed over to the FTL station. "FTL spooling up. The board is green."

O'Neil picked up One MC. "All hands, standby to jump."

"Missiles inbound! Range four thousand metres and closing!"

"I have the count," Munro said. "Ten, nine…"

"Screw the count! Hit it!"

Munro grabbed the FTL trigger. "I knew I should have stayed in bed today," he mumbled, turning it anti-clockwise.

A low hum built up throughout the ship, followed by a sickening feeling of disembodiment. O'Neil grabbed the chart table and braced himself as the drive discharged and the ship vanished.

*****

A moment later, the damaged old ship shuddered as she emerged from jump. In the CIC, Harper doubled up and vomited onto the steel deck, retching and coughing.

"You all right, Mr Harper?" O'Neil asked.

The young man spat and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He was pale and shaken, but looked otherwise unharmed. "Still in the fight, sir."

"Glad to hear it." He had to admit, even he felt a little queasy. It had been a rough jump, leaving him with the distinct impression that he'd left his stomach behind at Tauron. "Navigation, can you tell us where we ended up?"

Greene was bent over his console, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in a frown as he concentrated on what he was doing. "We're at the edge of the system, pretty far from the Colonies. Close to the Red Line."

Munro dabbed at the cut over his eye. "Any DRADIS contacts?"

"None, sir."

The XO turned to O'Neil. "Not a bad gamble, Rick."

"We're alive. A lot of people aren't." There was no getting away from that. He looked around the CIC and raised his voice so everyone could hear him. "We've survived our first action. The chances are, there's going to be more. I know we lost a lot of good people today, and that nothing we do will bring them back. But this war is just getting started, and if you want their deaths to mean something, then let's concentrate on getting back into the fight. We _will_ fight back, and we _will _get through this - all of us, together. Ensign Tyler, I want you to monitor for any Colonial transmissions. There's bound to be other ships out there."

"Yes, sir."

O'Neil walked across CIC, a little unsteady on his feet, and approached Fire Control. Harper was checking the status boards, but stopped his work when he sensed O'Neil's approach.

"Mr Harper."

"Yes, sir?" He looked tired and frightened.

"You and your gun crews did a hell of a job today. When you get a chance, do me a favour and tell them all how proud I am of them - all of them - and how impressed I am with their performance. That includes you."

The young man blushed, but straightened up a little. "Thank you, sir."

O'Neil nodded, then left him to it and made his way over to the Damage Control centre. "How's the old girl holding up?"

The woman sighed a little, both relieved and exhausted after the desperate action they'd just fought. "She seems... good, considering the punishment she's taken. Structural integrity's holding, and the fires are out."

"Good." He was dreading the next question, but it had to be asked. "And casualties?"

"We're still getting reports in, but so far we have twenty-six confirmed killed, and about twice as many missing." She shook her head sadly. "We had to vent the damaged areas where the nuke hit."

O'Neil understood her meaning. She had only been following orders, but at the end of the day, she'd been the one to press that button and consign her crewmates to death in space. "You did what had to be done."

She shrugged. "I guess so."

"What's your name, by the way? I haven't met you before."

She smiled, thinking it quite surreal that they should be observing social courtesies at a time like this. "No. I served aboard _Vengeance_. My name's Starke, Danielle Starke."

O'Neil held out his hand. "Good to meet you, Danielle. I'm Rick O'Neil."

Her grip was surprisingly strong when she took his hand. "I know who you are."

He frowned. "You do?"

"I recognised the face. You were a fighter, weren't you?"

Despite everything, he couldn't help but smile. "Yeah. About a million years ago."

"I used to watch your fights on TV when I was in college. You were in line for a title shot, if I remember. What happened to you?"

Just for a moment, O'Neil found himself back in that ring, soaked in sweat, listening to the crowd roaring. "Maybe we should save the stories until we're out of this. I'll let you get back to work." He let go of her hand and turned away. "Carry on, Ensign Starke."


	5. Counting the cost

Chapter 5 - Counting the cost

_Endurance's_ sickbay was crowded with casualties. The place had been designed on the assumption that one day it might have to deal with a lot of wounded, and today it had been proven right. O'Neil halted in the doorway for a moment, just staring around at his fellow crewmen fighting for their lives. The sound of their cries and groans was heartbreaking.

As he watched, Doctor Harken emerged from the carnage, his white coat smeared with blood. A tall, thin man in his early fifties, he had the tired, worn-out look of one who spent his life fighting losing battles. He was _Endurance's_ only qualified medical officer, and it showed.

"What's happening out there?" he asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. "We out of danger?"

"For now."

"I hope you're not planning on taking us into battle again any time soon," he grunted, glaring at O'Neil as if the whole thing was his fault.

"Not if I can help it." O'Neil glanced around. "What's the count?"

"Forty-one wounded, thirteen critical." Harken cleared his throat. "We've got everything here - broken bones, burns, shrapnel wounds... And we're short on staff. I've turned the walking wounded into nurses for the day. By the way, maybe you should get checked out yourself. You don't look so good."

"It's nothing," O'Neil said, making a dismissive gesture. His head was still pounding, but he did his best to ignore it for now. "Anything I can do to help?"

Harken chewed his lip for a moment, then nodded to the far end of the room. "There. Those guys got irradiated when the nuke hit."

"What can I do for them?"

The look in Harken's eyes told him everything he needed to know. "Just be there, Lieutenant. That's all we can do. Excuse me." With that, he turned and stalked off.

O'Neil sat down next to one young man, picked from the ten or so who had been set somewhat aside from the others. They'd all been exposed to high doses of radiation when the nuke hit, and the chances were they were all going to die.

This man had been hit hard. One half of his face was horribly burned, the flesh blackened and scorched. The tattered shreds of his uniform still clung to him. He was breathing hard, teeth clenched against the pain. From what one of the nurses had said, he'd ventured back into a damaged section to pull out an injured comrade, taking a fatal dose of radiation in the process. He looked at O'Neil with his one good eye.

"Is the ship safe, sir?"

O'Neil swallowed hard. "Yeah. Yeah, it's safe. Don't worry about it now. What's your name, son?"

"Duran. Ensign... William Duran."

"You did well today, William. I was told you went back in to pull out another injured crewman."

Duran coughed, a dry ragged cough, filled with pain. "Just doing my job."

"It was more than that. You're a hero, son. I'm proud of you."

Despite the pain, Duran managed to smile, though it soon vanished. "Would you do me a favour, sir?"

"Of course."

Duran nodded to the table next to his bed. It was strewn with operating equipment, bandages and medicines. "There's morphine there." He fixed O'Neil with a pleading look. "Give it to me."

"You've already been shot up. If you take too much, it might..."

"We both know I'm not getting out of here, sir," Duran cut in. "I took a big hit. I've seen what radiation does to you." He shook his head. "No way am I going out like that. I'd rather it was quick."

O'Neil glanced at the syringe, then back at the injured man, torn about what to do. "You're sure you want this?"

Duran swallowed and nodded. "Let me go out my way, sir."

O'Neil closed his eyes for a moment, then reached over and picked the syringe up. He looked down at the young man again, then pushed the needle into his arm, feeling the slight resistance as it passed through his flesh, then pushed the plunger all the way in.

Withdrawing the syringe, he grasped Duran's hand. His grip was still strong despite his injuries.

"You're gonna be fine, son," he whispered as the man's eyes grew heavy. "Rest now. You've done your duty."

O'Neil stayed there until Duran's grip slackened and his laboured breathing stopped.

*****

The CIC was a very different place when he returned about an hour later. It was calmer somehow, as if they had weathered the storm. The officers there spoke in quiet tones, bent over their computers but not really doing anything. O'Neil could guess what was on their minds.

"Commander on the deck," Munro said, noticing his approach.

O'Neil walked over to the chart table without saying anything, and stood there for several seconds, with his hands resting on the surface, head bowed.

"You all right, Rick?"

O'Neil looked up. All right? No, he wasn't. He was a very long was from being all right.

Ignoring him, O'Neil looked over at Samantha. "Ensign Tyler, what have you got?"

"No long-range broadcasts from Fleet Headquarters or any of the Colonies. The only thing still running is the Emergency Broadcast System." The young woman swallowed. "They're... transmitting the Order of Succession. Nobody's answered yet."

Silence descended on the room. The Order of Succession meant that the Colonial Government had been wiped out, and they were looking for any Cabinet Ministers who might still be alive.

"Any ship transmissions?" he asked, feeling more desperate by the minute.

"I caught some distant stuff about twenty minutes ago - freighters and passenger ships sending out distress calls." She wasn't crying, but her eyes were red as if tears had fallen from them not long ago. "They stopped not long after."

O'Neil nodded slowly. "XO, you have the conn. Secure the ship. I'm going to my Ready Room," he added, striding across the deck.

"Rick, we can't -" Munro began.

"You have your orders," O'Neil called over his shoulder. "Follow them."

O'Neil's room was in chaos when he hauled open the door. Books and pictures had been scattered across the floor, and the table had been turned over. Ignoring the mess, he walked through to the wash room, rested his hands on the sink and stared at his reflection.

The mirror was cracked, but in the flickering light he noticed his uniform was stained with blood. His own? Or Duran's?

That was it for him. He'd held himself together this long, concentrating all his thoughts on trying to keep them alive, on fighting for their lives, but there was no holding back now.

His legs gave way beneath him and collapsed to the deck, crying, unable to control himself. Images of Jessica, of Duran pleading to die, of _Endeavour_ succumbing to the relentless assault by two Baseships, of Caprica and all the people he cared about being vapourised in a nuclear holocaust whirled through his mind as he poured out his grief.

*****

_CAPRICA CITY_

_ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER_

_O'Neil winced as his fist connected with the man's torso again, muscle slamming into bone again and again without remorse, without relief. His opponent buckled, one leg gave out beneath him and he went down on one knee, bloodied and bruised, gasping for breath._

_"Stay down, you frakking idiot!" O'Neil yelled as the crowd booed. A couple of rounds earlier, they had cheered his every punch. _

_He was a popular fighter; young and energetic and aggressive, keen to take the fight to his opponents. He was showered with cheers every time he stepped into the ring, and he loved it. But now they were booing him. In their eyes, he was taunting the older fighter, beating him to within an inch of his life but refusing to finish him, refusing to put him out of his misery. _

_The reality couldn't have been further from the truth. He wanted this to end as much as they did. _

_"It's over! Stay down!"_

_The older man looked up at him, breathing hard, blood dripping from a cut above his eye and another on his cheek. Then his jaw clenched, he planted his feet firmly on the ground and forced himself to his feet. _

_The crowd cheered, and O'Neil's heart sank._

_*****_

O'Neil lay slumped on his wash room floor, staring silently ahead as tears rolled down his cheeks. It was all gone - everything. The Colonies, the Fleet, his home, even humanity itself. It was over.

Then, at that moment, the ship's tannoy blared out.

"All hands, man your battle stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship. Commander O'Neil report to the CIC immediately."

O'Neil looked up. It wasn't over yet. Sniffing, he wiped his eyes and pulled himself up off the floor. He was still the commander of this ship, and he had a job to do.

Twenty seconds later he strode into the CIC, his back straight, still buttoning up his bloodied uniform. "Sit rep."

Munro wasted no time. "Two Cylon Baseships just jumped in - I guess the same ones who hit us at the shipyard."

"Here to finish the job," O'Neil concluded grimly. "What's the range?"

"Just under twenty-two thousand," Greene reported. "They're launching raiders."

O'Neil glanced over at Munro. "FTL?"

The younger man shook his head. "Offline. That last jump overloaded the system. It'll be hours before we get it working again."

O'Neil chewed his lip. As far as he could see, they were out of options. "We can't run, and we can't fight. We're in no shape to take on two Baseships."

"Which means we're frakked," Munro concluded.

"Maybe not. There's one thing we could try," Samantha suggested.

O'Neil spread his hands. "I'm wide open, Sam."

"There's a gas giant about three grids from here. The atmosphere's pretty rough, but it's the perfect hiding place for a ship this big." She brushed a lock of dark hair out of her face. "DRADIS would be useless, and even visual navigation will be difficult."

He was starting to see where she was going. "So we take away their advantage."

The woman nodded.

"Frakked if I can think of anything better," Munro agreed.

O'Neil glanced over at Starke, who was still manning Damage Control. "What do you think? Will she handle it?"

The blonde woman shrugged. "Better than taking another nuke to the hull, that's for sure."

O'Neil nodded. "All right. Lay in a course and engage at maximum speed. Gunnery Control, we'll need you to cover our retreat."

Harper nodded, already on the phone. "We'll do what we can, sir."

The deck beneath their feet rumbled as the sub-light engines were spun up to full power. Dreadnoughts were powerful brutes, but moving nearly four hundred thousand tonnes of steel is no easy task, and she was slow to accelerate. The two Cylon Baseships meanwhile closed in on her, intent on finishing their prey off.

"Range down to nineteen thousand, sir," Greene reported. "Baseships launching raiders."

O'Neil clenched his teeth. "How long until we reach the gas giant?"

"We should make atmospheric interface in… six minutes."

That was too long. "Engine room, can't we go any faster?"

"We're already at maximum output, sir."

O'Neil stared at the DRADIS screen for a few moments, jaw clenched tight as he mulled over the possibilities. Then he nodded to himself. "Disengage the safeties and go to a hundred and ten percent on the reactors."

The younger man paled. "But sir, we'd risk a core overload."

O'Neil fixed him with a hard glare. "And we risk being intercepted if we don't. You want to get hit by another nuke?" The man had no answer. "Go to a hundred and ten percent. Now."

"Yes, sir." With trembling hands, he disengaged the automatic safety protocols governing the power output of the ship's reactors. They were there to prevent a core meltdown, but O'Neil knew it was possible to push them a little beyond their design limits. How far they would go was questionable, especially since they were older than his father, but he couldn't see much choice.

The vibrations in the deck, which had been barely noticeable before, now grew in intensity. O'Neil watched as a cup of coffee on the chart table moved slowly across the flat surface, the liquid inside rippling. The ship's structure strained with the forces now being exerted on it, but held out.

"Reactor output at a hundred and ten percent," the engineer reported. "Core temperature is holding."

O'Neil nodded, releasing the breath he'd been holding. "Very good."

Munro raised an eyebrow. "They don't make them like they used to."

That was the truth. However she'd ended up, _Endurance_ had been an honestly built ship in her day. Laid down eight years before the First Cylon War, she hadn't fallen victim to the corner-cutting that had plagued later ships of that period. It was widely rumoured that many of the old Battlestars had been built in haste to keep up with wartime demands, using substandard materials.

"Cylon raiders closing to ten thousand metres."

O'Neil looked over at Fire Control. "Mr Harper, do you have a firing solution?"

"I think so, sir."

"Then fire at will. Engage the Baseships with the aft main batteries."

"Yes, sir. Main Batteries Twenty to Twenty-Six, engage target Alpha One. Salvo fire commence."

The stern of any Colonial warship was its most vulnerable part. Not only did it house the delicate engine outlets, but it was difficult to mount defensive weaponry there. Endurance had only a battery of six main turrets there, all of which now sighted the nearest Baseship and opened fire.

The CIC shook as the first salvo was loosed. "Not much to hold off two Baseships with."

"It's all we've got," O'Neil admitted. "Range to the gas giant?"

"Three minutes to atmospheric interface." Warnings flashed up on the DRADIS screens. "Incoming missiles!"

The Cylons had guessed their intentions, and were trying to stop them before they reached the comparative safety of the planetary atmosphere. "Point Defence Guns, open fire."

Once more, tracer fire erupted from _Endurance's_ secondary batteries. Raiders and incoming missiles were cut down by the volleys, but there were too many. Dodging and weaving through the storm of shrapnel, one raider descended on the Dreadnought and triggered its full payload of missiles, which detonated against the hull in expanding plumes of smoke and fire. At the same moment, a burst of anti-aircraft fire blasted through its left wing. Crippled, the Cylon raider angled downwards, kicked its engines into full power and crashed into the ship's hull.

O'Neil felt the rumble of the impact, shockwaves travelling through the ship's beams as it absorbed more punishment.

"We can't take much more of this, Rick," Munro warned. They were still beat up after their last encounter.

O'Neil grabbed the table as the ship lurched with another impact. Computer screens flickered and the lights dimmed for a moment before coming back. "Tell me about it. They're almost on top of us."

"One minute to atmospheric interface."

"Come on, come on," he said under his breath. If they got any closer, he'd have no option but to bring the ship about and try to engage the Baseships. He knew it would be suicidal, but anything was better than getting shot in the back as they tried to flee.

The ship groaned as it took another big hit.

"Sir, core temperature's rising," the ship's engineer said. "I have to back down the reactor or it'll go critical."

"Gods damn it," O'Neil said under his breath. They were so close.

"Sir! Baseships are standing down!" Greene said, eyes wide in amazement.

O'Neil's heart leapt. "You're sure?"

"They've slowed down, and the raiders are withdrawing."

"They know they'd be fighting blind in there," Munro said, guessing their thinking. "They're going to wait us out."

O'Neil shrugged. "Either way, I'll take it."

"We're entering the atmosphere now," Greene said.

With the Baseships holding station nearby, the damaged Dreadnought slipped beneath the bluish-green cloud cover of the gas planet. Within moments it had been swallowed up, vanishing from sight. 


	6. Breaking point

Chapter 6 – Breaking point

O'Neil rubbed his eyes, doing his best to fight away the fatigue that was clawing at him. Like everyone else in the CIC, he hadn't slept for the best part of twenty-four hours, and it was starting to catch up with him. He swallowed the remains of his cup of coffee. The liquid was tepid and bitter, but he didn't care.

They had descended into the gas giant's upper atmosphere about thirty minutes ago, and since then had been lurking in the ammonia clouds, waiting with bated breath for the attach to resume. So far, they had encountered no further action from the Cylons.

He ran his hands through his hair. "Mr Greene, any DRADIS contacts?"

Greene flicked a few switches before throwing his hands up in a gesture of hopelessness. "Can't tell, sir. There's too much static electricity in the atmosphere. DRADIS is useless here."

"If we can't see them, they can't see us," Munro said. Normally upbeat and optimistic, he now looked drawn and haggard. O'Neil imagined he looked just as bad.

"Let's hope so," O'Neil agreed. For all they knew, there might be a Cylon Baseship a few hundred metres away. It was an unsettling thought.

Still, he doubted the Cylons would risk pursuing them into the atmosphere. The danger of collision was never far away, and he suspected the Baseship would come off worse in that event. They looked big and intimidating, but their armour seemed to be no match for the Colonial ship's heavy weapons.

"Well, we can't stay at alert forever," he decided, picking up the ship's intercom. If he was tired, then the rest of crew must have been exhausted. "All hands, this is Commander O'Neil. Stand down from Condition One. All non-essential personnel can stand down. The ship will remain at heightened readiness until further notice. That is all."

As O'Neil replaced the phone in its cradle, Munro piped up. "What do you suppose they're doing up there?" he asked, glancing up at CIC's roof as if the answers lay amongst the steel beams.

"Waiting," was the simple answer. "That's what I'd do. They know they've got us cornered here, and they know we can't jump inside this atmosphere. They'll establish a raider screen around the planet and wait until we come out. Then they'll hit us with everything they have."

"_Are_ we coming out?" They couldn't stay inside a planetary atmosphere forever.

O'Neil shrugged. "Not until we come up with some kind of plan." And it'll have to be a frakking good one, he didn't add. Leaving Munro to it, he walked over to the communications station and lowered his voice. "How you doing, Sam?"

The young woman scanned her console. "Long range communications are down. Must be interference from the atmosphere."

He smiled faintly. "That's not what I meant."

She exhaled slowly, leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. "I don't know. It just doesn't seem real, Rick. The Colonies, the Fleet, the government… All gone. I can't believe this is really happening – that the Cylons would break the armistice after all these years."

O'Neil nodded sadly. "I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. We fought to a standstill forty years ago. We thought they'd grown tired of war, but they were just biding their time." He sighed and shook his head. "And now… they've come back. This isn't a war for territory or resources, Sam. This is a war for survival. We're being exterminated."

"What are we going to do?"

He looked at her, his gaze hardening. "Fight back."

"How?"

He glanced away. "I'm working on it."

The young woman was silent for a few moments, though it was obvious she had something else she wanted to say. "Look, I've been thinking about what happened during the attack – how they were able to take out the Fleet so quickly."

He frowned. "I'm listening."

"Well, we kept hearing reports of equipment failures just before ships went into battle, and some of them were trying to say something about the Command Navigation Program. I think the Cylons managed to subvert the CNP and used it to disable our ships before they attacked."

"They can do that?"

"Of course. All the systems on our Battlestars are networked. If they could bypass the firewall, they could do anything - disable engines, weapons, shut down DRADIS or even life support. There's no telling. And it also explains why the Battlestars went down so quickly, but we weren't affected."

As a mothballed ship, _Endurance_ had never had the CNP installed on her computers. They were so old, it was doubtful they could have handled the sophisticated program. Anyway, none of her systems were networked, so there was no way for the Cylons to break in.

Wasn't that just the ultimate irony? _Endurance_, an obsolete old ship, was the only Colonial vessel to withstand the Cylon assault. But even if her computers were immune, she could still be destroyed by conventional weapons, as they had almost found out a few hours ago.

"But I thought the CNP's firewall was unbreakable. That was the whole point, wasn't it?" O'Neil asked. He wasn't exactly an expert on modern computing, but he'd seen enough news reports and interviews with Gaius Baltar to know the basics. The man was a media hound, and clearly no stranger to self-promotion, but he knew his stuff when it came to computer programming.

Samantha glanced around surreptitiously, as if someone was leaning in close to hear them. "It should have been. But what if the Cylons had help?"

He frowned. "Spies?"

"Maybe. It's something to consider, anyway."

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Great. I knew this was going to be a bad day."

Her expression softened. "Maybe you should take a break - try to get some rack time. You look like you could use it."

O'Neil shook his head. "If you guys don't get a break, I don't get one."

She grinned, her dark eyes flashing in the light of the computer screens. "Who are you kidding? My shift ends in half an hour."

He smiled. "Well, you can sign off for a while. We're not going anywhere, and communications are useless in here." He looked at her for a few moments. "By the way, it was a good idea you had – hiding in the atmosphere. You saved our asses, Sam."

She actually looked quite embarrassed. "Just doing what I can."

He laid a hand on her shoulder, looking her right in the eye. "Thank you. I mean that."

Leaving her alone, he returned to the chart table to talk with his XO. "What's the status of the FTL?"

"Still offline," Munro reported. "We're working on it."

"We'll need it. There's no way we can outrun those Baseships at sub-light."

"What are you planning, Rick?"

He gave his XO a wry smile. "I'll let you know when I think of something."

At that moment, Harper came running into the CIC and homed in on the two senior officers right away. "Sir, there's something I think you should see."

*****

A few minutes later, O'Neil and Munro stood at the hatch leading into the ship's wardroom. Inside it was pandemonium. Twenty or thirty people had gotten hold of a stash of alcohol, and had wasted no time in putting it to good use. Technically it was forbidden amongst the enlisted men, but there was always a certain amount smuggled onboard, especially on a ship like _Endurance_, where regulations were a little more relaxed.

Raucus shouts and laughter mingled with a group who had burst into song. And yet, there was a forced, almost hysterical air to the party. In the corner, a couple of young men sat with tears streaming from their eyes.

"We should put a stop to this before it gets out of hand," Munro said.

"I know." O'Neil looked around sadly.

And yet, what right did he have to stop them? They'd all lost friends, family, comrades today. They were grieving for them in the only way they could. They'd earned it.

"Let them have their party," he decided at last. "They need to get this out of their systems. Tomorrow we'll pick up the pieces."

"If this spreads, you know we could have a total breakdown of morale," the XO warned him.

O'Neil sighed. "All right. Post a couple of marines in the corridor - good men with level heads. Make sure this thing stays contained."

Munro nodded. "All right."

*****

O'Neil collapsed into his chair, reached over and poured himself a glass of whisky. It had taken about twenty minutes to get his quarters back into some kind of shape, but it had been important to him to get it done. Sitting there now in the comfortable old leather chair, it was almost possible to forget everything that had happened today. The same dusty books lined his shelves, the same painting of an ancient sailing ship hung from the wall, the same light flickered in his wash room.

But there were reminders, chief amongst which was the pounding headache that continued to assail him. He must have hit it pretty hard against the deck when he fell, probably giving himself a concussion in the process.

Frakking idiot, he thought. He was tired, yet he was reluctant to go to bed. There was still so much to do, so much that could still go wrong. What if the Cylons attacked again? What if something went wrong with the ship?

He took a deep pull of the whisky as he leaned back in his chair. What the hell were they going to do? They were outnumbered at least two to one. Not only that, but the Cylons had hundreds of raiders at their disposal, and could call on backup at a moment's notice if they got into trouble. O'Neil had no Viper squadrons and no reserves - just a battered old ship with a skeleton crew.

Anyway, even if they did prevail in this battle, what then? It was a question he hadn't really faced up to, but there was no escaping it now. The Colonies were either nuked or overrun, and the Fleet was likely annihilated. There was nobody left to give them orders, no cause left to fight for, no government to protect – he and the three hundred or so people aboard this ship were alone.

As he took another drink, someone knocked on his door.

He rolled his eyes, wondering what had gone wrong now. "Come!"

The door opened and an older man stepped into his quarters. He was tall and slender, with thin greying hair and sombre eyes. There was a bandage around his head. "Lieutenant O'Neil," he began.

"Yeah. How can I help?"

"I'm Lieutenant Piran. I was the commanding officer on _Vengeance_."

Frak, he's old for a lieutenant, O'Neil thought. The man must have been at least forty. He rose from behind his desk with some difficulty. "Good to meet you, Lieutenant Piran. I didn't see you in the CIC earlier."

"Yes, I was… injured during the first Cylon attack. I didn't get a chance to report to CIC."

O'Neil sympathised. It had been a chaotic time. "I see." He held out an empty glass. "Drink?"

The older man shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. Especially at a time like this."

O'Neil cocked an eyebrow. Humanity had been more or less wiped out, they were alone, and they might well be dead by this time tomorrow. If this wasn't a time for drinking, he didn't know what was.

"Suit yourself." He took another gulp. "So what would you like to talk about, Lieutenant?"

"This ship," Piran said bluntly. "Or rather, who commands her."

O'Neil frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Then let me speak plainly with you. This might be the only Colonial warship left, and I'm concerned about how it's being commanded." He sighed and shook his head. "Men getting drunk and running amok, displine breaking down... And then I come here and find you nursing a bottle yourself. You tell me how this looks."

O'Neil eyed him hard. "It's been a tough day for everyone, Lieutenant. They need to let off some steam."

"They need a leader," Piran corrected him.

It didn't take a genius to see where he was going with this. "And I suppose you want the job, huh?"

Piran straightened up. "Well, I'm the senior officer here."

"I'm not sure how you reached that conclusion. We're both lieutenants," O'Neil said.

"My commission is longer than yours. I became a lieutenant six years ago."

O'Neil slumped back down in his chair. "Who's counting?"

"Me. I read your file, and I recognise you. You were a Major once, if I'm not mistaken. Leader of a Viper squadron? And then last year you were demoted to Lieutenant. All that business with the training accident? The death of a Battlestar commander's son?" He sighed. "You know, I look at you and I see a man who couldn't make it as a boxer, couldn't make it as a Viper pilot and apparently can't make it as a ship commander. Maybe it's time to stand down and let someone who knows what they're doing take over?"

He had drawn himself up to his full height, shoulders back and chest out. He was putting on as much authority as he could summon up.

O'Neil glared at him, his eyes burning with cold fire. He'd heard more than enough of this crap. "Let me get this straight. You come aboard _my_ ship, march into _my_ ready room and start lecturing me about _my_ leadership ability, when all you've done so far is hide in sickbay?" He rose to his feet, drained the last of his whisky and slammed the glass down on the table. "I look at you and I see a man whose career hasn't gone anywhere in six years. At least I flew before I crashed and burned. What the frak did you do with your life, _Lieutenant Piran_? If you were half the leader you think you are, your ship would have been part of this fight instead of a useless pile of scrap. Now get the frak out of my room before I knock your ass into the deck."

Piran opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. Without saying another word, he turned and walked out.

O'Neil exhaled slowly and unclenched his hands. "Frak," he mumbled, pouring himself another drink.


	7. Seeds of dissent

Chapter 7 – Seeds of dissent

Number Six stood in the Hybrid Chamber, staring pensively at the strange creature that lay in the tank in front of her – not human, not Cylon, not machine, but something else. Streams of red numbers played across the walls as the hybrid whispered its strange nonsensical phrases, eyes staring blankly at the chamber ceiling above.

"Repressurise intermix chamber six… the stars of heaven flow across the black waters of perfection… power fluctuation in tier three… execute command override sequence seven… integrate… the whole is greater than the sum of its parts… readjust course to match… the last to fall is the first to rise…"

"Never understood why you enjoy spending so much time here," Number One said, strolling casually into the room. He looked down at the hybrid with mild curiosity. "It's complete jibberish."

"It helps me think – the randomness of it," the beautiful blonde woman replied. "I find it relaxing."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. You Sixes always were too sentimental."

"Have the humans come out yet?" she asked, changing the subject. The Ones always seemed to delight in pointing out the other model's perceived flaws.

"It's only a matter of time."

"What do you think they'll do? Run or fight?"

He smiled. "Does it matter? They're dead either way. The only question is how they check out."

"I wouldn't be so sure. They gave us a little surprise back at the shipyard. One Baseship destroyed and another badly damaged – that's impressive for… what did you call it? An obsolete piece of scrap?"

For a moment, his expression darkened. "The virus was ineffective against their computers. But it doesn't matter. They're alive, for now, only because I let them live."

Her delicate blonde brows drew together in a frown. "Why?"

His smile returned, malicious and calculating. "Think of this as a learning experience. One of us is with them. We'll know everything we need to know soon enough."

*****

Lieutenant Piran was seething as he stalked down the quiet hallway, endlessly replaying his brief confrontation with O'Neil earlier. The man's remarks still smarted, especially because, on some level, he knew the man was right.

It was his fault that his ship had been so woefully underprepared for action when the Cylons attacked. But there had been so much to do, and his 'crew' had been so reluctant to jump to action, he'd allowed things to slide. Anyway, the ship was a heap of junk anyway – who cared if her engines didn't work?

He'd never wanted to join the Fleet in the first place, but his uncle was an influential Commander, and had pushed his father into making him join. Intelligent but lacking motivation, he'd struggled through the military academy, eventually graduating in the bottom ten percent of his class. His assessment reports were always the same – _has potential, but no motivation to get things done._

The rest of his career had been largely reflective of his attitude. He'd been posted on a series of minor support ships, where he'd failed to distinguish himself. Eventually, more from experience than merit, he had drifted up to the rank of Lieutenant. There, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to rise any higher – to do so would have put him in a position of real responsibility, and he'd already proven he wasn't suited for that. 

Well, he wasn't going to put up with it any longer. This was his chance – maybe his last chance – to make things right. O'Neil was a fool; a reckless, irresponsible fool, and he was going to get them all killed. He had to be stopped.

He hauled open the door to one of the unoccupied officer's quarters that he'd taken over for himself. Waiting for him was a giant of a man by the name of Tarver. Piran had known him for a year or so now. Hailing from Aerilon originally, he'd left his home planet and joined the Fleet, seeking adventure. He wasn't particularly intelligent, but he did have a kind of low cunning that Piran found useful. He was also as strong as an ox, and willing to use that strength whenever it was needed.

"How did it go?" Tarver asked.

Piran shook his head. "O'Neil won't listen to reason. He's on some kind of power trip."

The big man grunted. "What do you want to do?"

Piran closed the hatch behind him and locked it. "We may have to take action, Sergeant – action that could result in bloodshed. We're doing it for the right reasons, but it'll be dangerous. I need to know now… are you in or out?"

Tarver rose to his full six-foot-six-inch height. "I'm in."

The older man smiled. "Good. Now we need someone with access to the small arms locker."

*****

O'Neil's eyes blinked open, closed again as the harsh electric light blinded him, then slowly opened again. He sat up with difficulty and looked around. He must have fallen asleep on the big leather seats in his quarters. He looked at his watch, realising he'd been asleep for about four hours. Not much to get by on, but it would have to do for now.

He stood up and shuffled through to the wash room, poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down, then looked at his reflection in the mirror. He wasn't looking good. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue, and his jaw was unshaven. His dark brown hair was messed up from sleep, and crusted with dried blood from the head wound. All in all, he looked very un-officer-like.

Using the tap, he wet his hands and ran them through his hair a couple of times, then brushed his teeth, trying to ignore the headache that still dogged him. He wasn't sure if it was a result of the concussion or the drink, but what did it matter? A headache was still a headache.

With his appearance now in some kind of order, he pulled on a clean tunic and stepped out into the corridor for the short, familiar walk to the CIC.

The ship's nerve centre was quiet when he appeared, with most of the stations empty and almost no conversation. Munro wasn't there – O'Neil guessed he'd surrendered at last to fatigue and gone to get some much needed rack time. Samantha wasn't there either, nor was Greene. The DRADIS screens flickered and crackled, showing nothing through the dense clouds that surrounded the ship.

"Who's the officer of the watch?" he asked, wondering if there even was one. Surely Munro wouldn't have just vanished without leaving someone in charge?

"I guess that would be me, sir," Starke said, her voice was heavy as if she'd just awoken. She was sitting at the helm, though she was careful not to touch any of the controls. The ship was on autopilot, slowly orbiting the planet in its upper cloud layers.

"Anything to report?" he asked.

The woman shook her head. "It's been quiet, which makes a nice change." She stretched, arching her back. He could hear the vertebrae cracking as they reordered themselves.

"Have you even slept since this whole thing began?"

She smiled sheepishly. "I think I dozed off for a while earlier. Sorry, sir."

"I think we'll overlook the court martial on this occasion." Spotting an urn of coffee near one of the stations, he walked over and poured a cup. "You want one?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Don't thank me 'til you've tried it." He crossed the room and handed it to her. Her hand was warm and soft when she touched his for a brief moment. She smiled and took a drink, then sighed and ran a hand through her blonde hair.

"You know what I keep thinking about?" she said after a moment.

"What's that?" O'Neil asked as he poured himself a drink.

"The last day I spent on Caprica before I shipped out here. All the little details – what I ate for breakfast, the weather, the people I saw when I was walking down the street. You know what I did that day? I went to the movies."

"What did you see?"

"_Another Day Lost_."

"Any good?" he asked, because it was automatic when someone told you they'd seen a film.

"Nope." She laughed then, the sound strangely out of place in this place of war. "Can you believe that? The last frakking movie I'll ever see, and it sucked." Her smile faded as she looked at him again. "We're not getting out of this one, are we?"

He avoided her gaze as he took a drink. "We're not finished yet."

"But what can we do? Where can we go? The Colonies are gone."

O'Neil sighed. "You know, I didn't learn much as a fighter, but I do know this: It's not over until the final bell rings. And I'm not hearing it yet."

The woman leaned back in her chair, undoing the collar of her uniform. "Mind if I ask you a personal question?"

He shrugged. "Shoot."

"How did you end up out here, doing duty like this?"

"You don't think this is a noble posting for an up-and-coming officer?" he asked with a wry smile.

"Come on. I saw how you handled yourself in the battle at the fleet yards. Everyone else was falling to pieces, but you knew what you were doing. How did an officer like you end up way the hell out here?"

"That's a long and tedious story," he warned her.

She smiled. "I'm not going anywhere."

He sighed. "All right. But it doesn't have a happy ending."

_BATTLESTAR ATLANTIA_

_SIX MONTHS EARLIER_

_Major Rick "Knockout" O'Neil finished lacing up his boots and rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders a couple of times to get comfortable in the bulky flight suit. The Pilots Ready Room was a busy place on any Battlestar, and Atlantia was no exception. Viper and Raptor pilots hustled back and forth, either changing into or out of their flight suits, and swapping banter about their recent missions. _

_He turned and looked at the young pilot who would be accompanying him on this flight. He looked both nervous and excited, a typical reaction for a rookie about to fly solo. But this was not typical rookie. This was Zak Adama – the son of the legendary William Adama. He was practically a VIP. _

"_You ready for this, Lieutenant?" he asked. This was his first flight aboard the new ship, so the young pilot hadn't earned a call sign yet. But it wouldn't take long. _

_Adama swallowed and nodded. "Born ready, sir," he said, trying to flash a confident grin._

_He was scared, O'Neil knew. "You'll be fine. This is a standard flight plan. You've done it a hundred times in flight school. Now let's get it over with."_

_The walk down to the hangar bay took about five minutes. Atlantia was a big ship, but an efficient one. The decks were clean and tidy, equipment all squared away, crewmen in spotless uniforms hurrying to their duty stations. _

_The hangar deck was equally impressive. Rows of Mark VII Vipers were parked along one edge of the hangar, some partially stripped down for maintenance. _

_He was just heading for his own Viper when a woman's voice shouted over the din of heavy machinery. "Rick!" _

_O'Neil turned to see a young woman striding towards him, her short blonde hair bouncing up and down as she moved. _

_He grinned. "I'll be damned. Starbuck."_

_His grin was matched by her own. "Good to see you again, Rick."_

"_Talk about a bad penny," he said, shaking her hand. "What are you up to these days?"_

"_I'm an instructor at Flight School, breaking in the rookies."_

_O'Neil shook his head in mock dismay. "And I thought you were serious about flying. Never saw you as a school teacher."_

_He'd known her since her days as a snot-nosed rookie pilot. She was a hell of an instinctive flyer, but her discipline record made for interesting reading. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he'd always liked the fiery and passionate young woman. She was like a weapon – you had to know how to handle her or you were likely to get hurt. _

"_Only the good pilots get to pass on their skills. That's why you've never been asked to do it," she taunted. "By the way, when are you going to get your ass back in the ring? You promised me a rematch." _

_He grinned. Every once in a while, the ship hosted a rank-free boxing tournament. Everyone and anyone was free to take part, and perhaps inevitably given his history, he'd been roped in. He wasn't the fighter he'd been ten years earlier, but he'd easily ploughed his way through the eager young rookies that were thrown into the ring with him. Then he'd been matched up against Kara Thrace. _

_At first he'd taken it easy on her, not wanting to knock out a woman even if it was a competitive event. But she'd persisted, taking everything he'd dished out and responding with increasingly vicious counter-attacks. The woman simply lived for fighting, either in a cockpit, in the ring or anywhere else she could find it. By the end, they'd both been exhausted, sweating and hurting more than they cared to admit. The referee had wisely ruled the fight a draw, and ever since then, they'd been good friends. _

_"Now you're dreaming," he said. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of everyone." _

_"Beating up an old man would be kind of embarrassing," she admitted. "But I'd get over it." _

_"Less of the 'old man' or I really will kick your ass," he said, pretending to be angry. "Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?"_

_At that moment, Zak appeared. Starbuck spotted him right away, hurried forward and hugged him. O'Neil watched them. It didn't take a genius to work out what the deal was with them. He supposed in a way he was happy she'd found someone, but he was surprised it was such a young guy. _

_"Ah, so you had the bad luck of ending up with Starbuck, huh?" he said, giving Zak a look of sincere pity. "You don't know what you're letting yourself in for."_

_Zak grinned. "I think I can handle her, sir." _

_Starbuck laughed and punched him playfully in the arm. "We'll see. Anyway, I just came to see you off on your first CAP." With exaggerated seriousness, she straightened up and saluted. "Good hunting, Lieutenant." _

_Zak returned the salute. "Thank you, sir." _

_"Why don't you go check out your Viper," O'Neil suggested. "Get started on the preflight checks." _

_"Yes, sir."_

_As he walked away, Starbuck turned to O'Neil, her expression more serious now. "Listen, Rick... Do me a favour. Watch out for him, okay? He's still green." _

_"Okay, I guess I can forget the inverted Shooting Stars, then," he joked. Realising how important it was to her, he became more serious. "All right. I'll go easy on him. Anyway, it's a simple CAP - do a few trips around the block, then we head home." _

_The woman nodded, looking relieved. "Thanks." _

_"See you in a couple of hours." _

_A short time later, O'Neil was strapped into his Viper's cockpit, eyes scanning the computer readouts in front of him. He hit the transmit button for his radio. "Red Leader to Red Two. You ready for this, Zak?"_

_"Yeah." He sounded uncertain, but determined. _

_"Okay, let's do this." He switched frequency to Atlantia's CIC. "Red Flight ready for launch."_

_"Copy that, Red Flight. Standby. Launch in five, four, three, two, one, launch!" _

_O'Neil was hurled back into his seat as the magnetic accelerators hurled his Viper out of the launch tube and into the vacuum of space. Two seconds later, Atlantia was behind him and he was free to navigate. _

_For a moment, he stared in awe at the great blue and white expanse of Caprica stretching out beneath him. To his left lay the imposing bulk of the massive orbiting space docks, where several Battlestars and support craft were docked. And above it all was the endless dark of space, thousands of tiny stars glimmering against the blackness. It was an awesome sight, and one that never failed to move him. _

_"Red Two, form up on my starboard side," he said, getting back to business. He wasn't getting paid to go sightseeing. _

_"Roger that." _

_O'Neil watched as Adama's Viper moved in to flank him. Too fast. He was going to collide. _

_"Red Two, break right!" Instinctively O'Neil jerked the stick, moving him off to port as Zak performed a similar evasive action to starboard, overcompensating with lateral thrust so that he swung out in a wide arc._

_Gods damn it, this kid's all over the place, O'Neil thought. Where did he learn to fly?_

_"Red Two, you okay?" _

_"I'm sorry, sir," Zak replied, sounding shaken. O'Neil couldn't blame him - he'd almost destroyed a hundred million credit spacecraft. _

_"That's okay. Take a minute, get yourself sorted out. Get a feel for the controls. The Viper will almost fly itself, so let it." As he was saying this, he kept thinking that he shouldn't be having to walk Zak through such basics. Hadn't he learned anything in flight school? "You feel better now?" _

_"Yes, sir." _

_"Good. Why don't you try forming up on my starboard side again?" _

_Once more, O'Neil watched as Zak's Viper came in, much slower and more cautious this time. When he was eventually settled into place, O'Neil spoke up again. _

_"Okay, let's turn to zero-nine-zero to start our patrol." _

_As they turned to port, Zak began to drift off right before correcting and closing in again. O'Neil shook his head, seriously tempted to scrub the mission and return to the Atlantia. Either Zak was having a real off day, or he was genuinely too incompetent to fly a Viper. Either way, it was dangerous for him to be at the controls._

_But to be hauled back to base on his first mission would be a terrible insult, and a blow to his confidence that he might never recover from. And in a more selfish vein, it wouldn't look good on O'Neil's record either, especially not when he was widely tipped to be Atlantia's next CAG._

_No, they would press on. He'd never met a rookie he couldn't break in, and he didn't intend to start today. _

_The remainder of the patrol passed fairly uneventfully. To O'Neil's relief, Zak actually did start to improve over the next hour as he loosened up at the controls. His turns became sharper and more controlled, and he wasted less fuel getting into position. _

_O'Neil was just getting ready to take them back to Atlantia when his radio crackled into life. "Red Flight, this is Atlantia Actual. We have an unidentified vessel approaching the fleet. Bearing, one-five-six. Move to intercept." _

"_Copy that, Atlantia. We're bingo on fuel. Isn't there another patrol on the ready line?"_

"_Negative, Red Flight. It'll be a couple of minutes before they can launch. It's your call." _

_O'Neil chewed his lip. They had enough fuel to complete the mission, but he wasn't confident in his wingman's abilities if they ran into trouble. But then, he couldn't see much of an alternative. Anyway, the only way to learn was to get stuck in. _

"_Roger that, Atlantia. Moving now," he said, then changed frequencies to talk to Zak. "Red Two, we've got an unidentified ship moving in. We're going to go check it out. Follow my lead."_

_O'Neil changed course and kicked in a hard burn to get them moving. Sure enough, he could see a new DRADIS contact. There was no Colonial transponder displayed. _

"_Red Two, go weapons hot," he ordered, flicking the Master Arm switch on his own weapons. He didn't know what they were getting into, but he didn't intend to get caught off guard. _

_As they closed in, the distant speck of the unidentified spacecraft resolved itself into the squat, undignified shape of a cargo freighter – the kind of bottom-of-the-line vessel to be found in any spaceport in the Colonies. As they closed in, O'Neil fired up his radio. _

"_Attention unidentified vessel, this is the Colonial Vipers approaching from your port bow. You are not displaying Colonial identification. Please state your registry number and intentions." _

_A few moments later, the crackly reply came through. "Colonial Vipers, this is Virgon Heavy Two-Three-Seven, registry One-Nine-Five-Three-Nine. We hit sunspots on the Tauron-Caprica run and it's crippled most of our electronics. Transponder is offline. Requesting permission to dock immediately."_

_O'Neil keyed the registry number into his computer. A moment later, the code was verified. "Roger that, Virgon Heavy. We'll escort you in." _

"_Much appreciated." _

"_Okay, Red Two. Form up on their starboard quarter," O'Neil ordered. "I'll take port." _

_He watched as Zak's Viper sped past, heading for the cargo ship. Moving in fast – too fast. _

"_Red Two, watch your angle of approach," he said. "You're coming in a little hot."_

_Still the fighter closed in, engines at full burn. _

"_Red Two, pull up!" _

_At the last moment, the lateral thrusters kicked in and the Viper jinked upward. Too late. The lower edge of the fighter clipped the cargo ship's solid structure, resulting in a brief flash of sparks. The stricken Viper lurched away, yawing left as the damaged engines misfired._

"_Red Two, what's your status?" _

"_I'm in a spin! I… I can't recover!" Zak's panicked voice yelled back. _

"_Yes you can," O'Neil replied, trying to keep himself calm. "You've trained for this." _

_Alarms were blaring in the background as the spin intensified. The Viper was approaching its structural limits. "It won't pull out! I'm losing it!" _

"_Okay, eject!" His eyes were locked on the ship's canopy, praying for it to come flying off. Nothing happened. "You hear me Red Two? Eject! Eject!" _

_An instant later, Zak's Viper was illuminated by a bright flash as the fuel tanks exploded. Ammunition for the cannons followed a moment later, adding to the blast. _

_O'Neil closed his eyes, not wanting to watch. _

_*****_

_An hour later, O'Neil sat in the pilots locker room, staring silently ahead as his mind's eye endlessly replayed what had happened. He was still wearing his flight suit, not having bothered to change. _

"_It was my fault," he said at last. "I never should have taken him in with me. He was green." _

_Starbuck sat on the opposite side of the room. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were wet and red. "He was trained for this. He should have known what to do."_

_He shook his head. "It was my call." He looked at her. "I'm so sorry." _

_Starbuck said nothing. _

_*****_

_O'Neil straightened up as the verdict was read out. "Major O'Neil, it is the judgement of this court that you displayed negligence and reckless judgement on the day of the accident by allowing Lieutenant Adama to fly when it was apparent he was not competent. We therefore find you guilty of causing death by negligence."_

_O'Neil raised his chin, keeping his back ramrod straight as the old admiral stared him hard in the eye. _

"_However, we must also take into account your service record, which has been impeccable up to this point. Therefore, it is with some regret that this court hereby passes sentence. You are to be demoted to the rank of Lieutenant, and your status as a Viper pilot revoked until further notice. This incident will be entered into your service record. Dismissed."_

_O'Neil felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He saluted the board of three admirals, then turned towards the rest of the court. Starbuck was there, her face tight with carefully repressed emotion. Only her eyes shone with sadness and regret. _

_Beside her sat Commander William Adama. His old pockmarked face was set and grim, but his icy blue eyes bored into O'Neil without remorse. This was the man responsible for his son's death._

_O'Neil looked away, unwilling to face the grieving father. _

*****

O'Neil sighed and took another drink of coffee, his story concluded.

Starke was silent for several seconds, mulling over everything she'd heard. "So you were posted out here."

He smiled grimly. "It's the only place that would have me. I'd never find a place on any Battlestar – not with that kind of history. So…" He spread his arms. "Here I am. Isn't life great."

"But if you'd stayed on _Atlantia_, you'd be dead now," the woman reminded him.

He shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. "Maybe."


	8. Rebellion

Chapter 8 - Rebellion

Tarver edged forward, stealing a glance around the corner. Perfect, there was only one marine on guard duty outside the armoury. And he looked like he was suffering from lack of sleep.

Taking a deep breath and drawing himself up to his full height, he strode forward. The marine glanced up, grip tightening on his rifle as he stared at the imposing looking man coming his way.

"Sir, this area is -"

"There's a problem in the mess hall," Tarver cut in. "That crowd's getting out of hand. They need some help down there."

The man frowned. "I can't. I have to guard the armoury. Commander's orders."

"Do your orders include letting a mob taking over the ship?" Tarver asked. "Go. I'll take over here."

"But sir..."

"What's your name, son?"

"Yale, sir."

"Well, Corporal Yale. If the Commander found out you'd allowed a riot to get out of control, how do you think that would look?" Tarver asked bluntly.

Yale was silent for several seconds. "You'll keep an eye on things here, sir?"

"Of course."

The young man nodded, glanced at him one last time, then hurried off down the corridor.

As soon as he was gone, Tarver turned and got to work on the security bulkhead leading to the armoury. The door was secured with a strong lock, but ten seconds with a plasma cutter soon saw to that.

Casting aside the torch, he unlatched the bulkhead and hauled it open. The low room beyond was filled with rows of assault rifles, pistols, heavier machine guns, crates of ammunition and body armour.

No sooner had the opened the door than Piran and a dozen other men appeared from the direction Yale had gone.

"We don't have much time," Tarver informed him.

"Get those assault rifles issued out," Piran ordered. "Move it!"

*****

"I repeat, XO report to the CIC right away." O'Neil clicked the phone off and laid it back down in its cradle. "Gods damn it, where is everyone?"

He was content to let people rest for a while, but the ship couldn't function with a small huddle of semi-conscious officers in the CIC. It was time for them to regroup and come up with a plan. But thus far, his polite requests for the ship's senior officers to report in had gone unanswered.

"Maybe they're sleeping it off," Starke suggested. "It was a rough day for everyone."

O'Neil shook his head. "No. Not Munro, anyway. He doesn't drink."

The woman looked at him. "There's a first time for everything."

He wasn't convinced. Something didn't feel right about this. He picked up the phone again and keyed in the line to the mess hall where the marines were on station. "Sergeant Morgan, give me a sit rep." His call was met with silence. "Corporal Reece. Report. Is there anyone on station?"

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the entrance to CIC. O'Neil whirled around in time to see several armed men storm into the room, weapons trained on the command crew and fingers tight on triggers.

"Nobody move!" one of them shouted. "Keep those hands where I can see them!"

"What the hell is going on?" O'Neil demanded.

His question was answered a moment later when Piran strode into the room, pistol in hand. "Secure the CIC! If anyone tries to resist, we will open fire."

O'Neil glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

The older man met his gaze. "I'm relieving you of command, O'Neil. Effective immediately. Are you going to stand down, or is this going to get messy?"

"You're insane," he said, hardly believing what was going on. "The Colonies have been wiped out, and you're trying to mutiny!"

"I'm saving us all."

"From what?"

"From you," Piran cut in. "This might be the last Colonial warship in the universe, and I won't see it in the hands of someone like you."

"This isn't about saving anyone - we both know that. It's nothing more than your Gods damned ego."

"You can call it what you want!" Piran shouted, his voice rising in pitch. There was an unsteady edge to it now. "We have the guns, and we're taking command!"

O'Neil stared around the room, at the armed men with rifles pointed in all directions. "You men here... I know you're following this man because he was your commanding officer, but for Gods sakes think about what you're doing. You're staging a mutiny in time of war."

"Stand down, O'Neil!" Piran warned.

"Each of you has to make your choice right now. Because once you make it, there's no going back. And Gods have mercy on you if this mutiny fails."

Around the room, men exchanged nervous glances.

Sensing his mutiny was losing momentum, Piran took charge. "Sergeant Tarver, escort Mr O'Neil to the brig."

As Tarver moved forward, Starke rose to her feet. "Sir, please don't do this."

Piran rounded on her. "Ensign Starke, you're either with us... or you're with him. Your call."

The woman glanced at O'Neil, than back at Piran, saying nothing. The Lieutenant smiled, taking it as a victory. "That's what I thought. Mr Tarver, put him in the brig with the others."

Tarver grabbed O'Neil by the arm and hauled him away from the chart table. In a last show of defiance, O'Neil twisted out of his grasp, gave Piran a look of smouldering anger, and marched out of the CIC.

Piran let out a sigh of relief once he was gone. "Give me One MC, please." With that, he picked up the telephone and took a deep breath before speaking. "Crew of the _Endurance_, this is your new Commander. As of now, I have relieved Mr O'Neil of command for dereliction of duty, conduct unbecomming a Colonial officer and reckless endangerment of this ship. As your new commanding officer, it is my intention to repair the ship's FTL drives as soon as possible and jump out of this area to safety. Once we've lost our Cylon pursuers, I intend to rendezvouz with a Colonial fleet that is assembling on the far side of the sun. We _will _strike back at our enemies, and we _will_ prevail, but we must do it at a time and place of our choosing. For now, I want repair details to get to work on the FTL drives. That is all."

As he hung up the phone, Starke stared at him in disbelief. "Is that true? About a Colonial fleet forming for a counter-attack?"

The older man grinned. "Of course not. I'm giving them what they need right now - hope. By the time they realise the truth, it won't matter."

*****

The ship's brig was crowded with about thirty officers and ensigns, some of whom sported fresh cuts and bruises from not going quietly. O'Neil was shoved inside, but immediately rounded on his captor.

"You know Piran's insane, don't you? We're fighting for our lives here, and all he's interested in doing is massaging his ego."

Piran said nothing – simply closed the bulkhead behind him and locked it in place. O'Neil could hear his footsteps receding down the corridor.

He turned his attention to the inhabitants of the room, and within moments he'd found Samantha.

"Sam!" he said, moving forward to meet her. "You're hurt."

Her cheek was cut and bruised, her dark hair a tangled mess. "It's nothing. The bastards stormed into my quarters before I could stop them. Where did they get you?"

"CIC," he admitted. "We had no idea."

"Which means they control the ship," she realised. "Gods, how did it come to this?"

"I don't know. But we need to find a way out of here."

Harper, who had overheard the conversation, piped up. "This brig was built to keep people in. There's no way out, sir."

"There's always a way," O'Neil hit back, sounding more confident than he felt. "Where's Munro?"

*****

In the CIC, Piran was pacing nervously. "What's the status of the ship?" he demanded.

"We've secured everything between the engine room and CIC. A few of O'Neil's men have barricaded themselves into the wardroom, but they're isolated from the rest of the ship – they can't go anywhere."

"Anyone unaccounted for?"

At this, Tarver hesitated. "We're not sure. With all the dead and wounded, no accurate counts were made."

Piran fixed him with a cold stare. "You'd better get sure quickly, Mr Tarver. If there are men running around out there, we need to find them."

Tarver tensed up, his thick neck muscles bunching. "I know exactly what I need to do… _sir_."

Angered, but aware that he couldn't afford to push Tarver too far, Piran turned his attention on Greene, who was now manning the navigation console. "What about the FTL drive?"

The older man glared at him, making no effort hide his disdain. "Still offline."

"What's the problem?" Piran demanded.

"The problem? These systems haven't been properly serviced in years. Even with a full technical staff it could take weeks to get them working. It's hopeless."

At this, Piran marched towards him brandishing his pistol. "We don't have that long, Mr Greene." He brought the pistol up, aiming at Greene's forehead. "Now, are you going to fix this thing or am I going to have to find someone else?"

The man swallowed hard, staring at the gun barrel for a few seconds. "Give me some time. I'll get it working."

Piran lowered the weapon. "Good."

At that moment, a marine hurried into the room. "Sir, the brig's getting pretty full. What are we going to do with the prisoners?"

"Try to persuade them to join us. If they won't…" The Lieutenant shrugged. "They're expendable."

Starke's eyes opened wide in horror. "You mean execute them?"

He whirled around to face her. "We're at war. We do what we have to do to survive. Or do you have a problem with that?"

Starke leaned back at her console, but said nothing. This was getting out of control.

*****

Munro edged out from behind the bulkhead, stealing a glance into the corridor. He could hear voices coming closer, and the clang of boots on the steel deck.

From what little he'd been able to learn, it looked like some of the crew of _Vengeance_ had mutinied, and were trying to take over the ship. He'd heard shouting earlier, and even some scattered gunfire, then it had all gone quiet. Where was O'Neil? Where were the rest of the senior officers?

The voices were getting close now. Munro edged back behind cover, clutching the pipe wrench in sweating hands. All the firearms were kept secured in the armoury for obvious reasons, and this was the best he could do. It wasn't much to take on a couple of armed men, but he had the element of surprise on his side.

They were almost right outside now. Taking a deep breath, he kicked the door open and charged out. There were two of them – marines, big and strong, armed with assault rifles and pistols.

One man fell to a vicious swing from the wrench, but as he rounded on his second target, something slammed into the side of his head with enough force to send him sprawling on the deck. Staring up with bleary eyes, he watched as the marine raised his rifle to fire.

Then suddenly a gunshot rang out, the man jerked convulsively and fell to the ground with blood pumping from a gory head wound. Munro found himself staring in amazement at Starke.

"Are you okay?" she asked, kneeling down to help him.

"Never better," he replied, shaking his head to try to clear his vision. He glanced at her, then at the two marines lying on the deck. "I thought you were with _them_."

The woman's clear blue eyes darkened. "Not this. This isn't what I signed up for." She was silent for a moment, then seemed to come back to herself. "Come on, you need to get up. They'll be sending reinforcements soon."

Munro snatched up one of the assault rifles as she helped him to his feet.

*****

In the CIC, the FTL status boards blinked once, then changed to green to show that the system was online. Piran looked up, turning his attention to Greene, who still sat at the console.

"I did it," he said grimly. "The system's rebooting now."

"How soon until it's spooled up?"

"Three or four minutes."

Piran nodded. "Good. Maybe we'll keep you around after all, Mr Greene." He reached for the ship's One MC. "All hands, set Condition One throughout the ship. Prepare for jump."

"Where are we jumping to?" Greene asked.

"Anywhere. Once we're in open space, we'll broadcast a distress signal and wait for Colonial forces to link up with us."

"What if there aren't any Colonial forces? What if we're all that's left?"

Piran turned to look at him. "That's not an option."

*****

"I can't believe it's come to this," Samantha whispered, staring around the brig at her shipmates. "The Cylons are our enemy, and we're fighting with each other."

O'Neil nodded sadly. He had expected the crew to pull together in the face of a common enemy, but instead the opposite seemed to have happened. They were fragmenting, forming petty allegiances. And he had allowed it to happen.

He should have known something was wrong. Just like with Zak Adama, he'd pushed on, ignoring his instincts that told him to back down. And now they were all paying the price.

"I'm sorry," he said at last.

The young woman looked at him. "For what?"

"For not keeping my promise. I said we'd all get through this together, but we won't. And it's my fault."

She opened her mouth to say something else, but at that moment, the bulkhead door clicked and the locking wheel began to turn. Those near the door stood up and backed away, sensing that something bad was about to happen. Maybe Piran had decided to execute them all.

O'Neil pulled himself up, finding himself now at the head of the group. He raised his chin, determined to die on his feet if it came to that.

But as the door swung open, he stared in amazement as Starke walked in, holding a marine at gunpoint. For several seconds nobody moved or said a word, such was their shock.

"Are you going to help me out?" the blonde woman finally asked. "Or would you like to stay here."

O'Neil strode forward and accepted the pistol she held out to him, while a couple of other crewmen hauled the marine aside. "What's going on? You on our side now?"

"I think that's obvious. I had to play along with them for a while, otherwise I'd have ended up here with you," she said. "Piran's going to get us all killed if we don't stop him. He's getting ready to trigger the FTL drives."

"Then we need to get to the CIC," O'Neil decided. "Even his own men can't have much faith in him. If we take him out of the picture, his mutiny will go down with him."

"Cut off the head, and the body dies," Starke agreed.

"Exactly. How many people do you have with you?"

"I'm it," she said with a wry grin.

"Great. This day's getting better and better." He pulled back the pistol's slide just a little to check there was a round in the chamber. "We need some weapons first. There's not much time – the armoury's two decks down."

"By the way, there's someone who wants to talk to you."

Starke reached into her pocked and tossed him a portable radio. O'Neil caught it and pressed transmit. "Who is this?"

"Rick, good to hear your voice." Munro's Virgon accent was unmistakable. "Is it just me or is this day totally frakked?"

O'Neil grinned, relieved his friend was all right. "It's not just you. Where are you right now?"

"Near the CIC. Our friends are close to jumping us out of here."

O'Neil nodded. "Standby there. We're on our way. We're taking back our ship."


	9. Redemption

Hi everyone! First up, I just want to say thanks for all the positive feedback you've all been giving me. It really helps keep me motivated.

I'm really enjoying writing this story, and I'm glad it seems to be going down well. So thanks everyone, and I hope you enjoy the rest!

Cheers.

*****

Chapter 9 - Redemption

O'Neil backed up against the bulkhead, once again checking chamber on his pistol - it was loaded and the safety disengaged. He glanced left at Starke. The woman was steady as a rock, jaw set with determination, rifle held at the ready. She was so cool under pressure, he would have mistaken her for a veteran marine if he didn't know better.

With one curt nod, they both moved out from behind cover, weapons out and trained on the two marines guarding the armoury.

"Don't move!" O'Neil yelled. "Stand down!"

"Drop your frakking weapons!" Starke added.

For a moment, both of them wore an expression of blank shock. Then at last they seemed to realise what was going on. One raised his rifle to fire, and was immediately cut down by a burst from both Starke and O'Neil. He staggered back, blood pumping from a dozen wounds, before slumping to the deck with a ragged sigh. The second, knowing his situation was futile, wisely dropped his weapon.

"Put your hands on your head and interlock your fingers!" Starke ordered.

"Come on! Move up!" O'Neil yelled, covering the second marine as crew members rushed forward to arm themselves. The armoury door had been forced - someone had used a plasma torch to cut it open - so it didn't take long for the weapons to start flowing out. Within thirty seconds, at least half the group were armed and clad in body armour.

He glanced down at the dead body nearby, blood staining the deck, and shook his head in dismay. Human fighting human - what the frak for? Each human life was precious, and they were being wasted.

His radio crackled. "Rick, come in."

He pressed the transmit button. "I read you, Danny. What's your situation?"

"The hour's getting late, and things are real tense in the CIC. Whatever you're going to do, you need to do it now."

"I hear you. We're locked and loaded here. Is there anything you can do to help us out?"

"What do you need?"

"Ideally, as much chaos and confusion as possible," he said.

"There's a couple of main bus breakers nearby. I might be able to short out a few systems before you go in. It won't put them out of action, but it should buy you a couple of seconds."

O'Neil nodded. "Good. Stand by. We're on our way."

"Good luck, Rick."

"And you." Leaving the radio, he turned to the small army that now awaited his command. "All right people, let's move like we've got a purpose!"

*****

In the CIC, Piran paced back and forth with mounting agitation. "Where the hell is Starke?" he demanded.

The woman had deserted her post about twenty minutes earlier, yet nobody seemed to remember her leaving. How was that possible? Was he working with total incompetents?

Tarver shook his head. "I don't know. She should be here."

"I know she _should_ be here. But she _isn't_ here, is she?" He clenched his teeth, holding in check his mounting frustration. "Find her."

At that moment, the phone at the chart table buzzed. Piran strode over and picked it up. "CIC."

"Sir, this is Corporal Hastings. We're in the starboard access corridor, Deck Five. We've found Kaminsky and Baxter - they're both dead. Someone took them out."

A chill ran through him.

"Frak!" he snapped. "Get back to CIC!" Replacing the phone, he picked another to link him to the marines guarding the brig. "Prison detail, report."

There was no reply.

"Report!"

He slammed down the phone and turned to his second in command. "Tarver, station guards at every entrance to CIC. We've got a rebellion on our hands. They'll be coming for us!"

Tarver drew out his pistol and stalked towards the hatch to speak to the marines there. Meanwhile, Piran turned to Greene at the navigation console. "Prepare to jump the ship. Set the board."

"But we can't jump inside this atmosphere." Greene protested. "There's too much magnetic interference -"

"Do it now!" Piran yelled, his heart pounding. "Do it, or you're dead."

The older man clenched his teeth, but bent over the jump console and flicked the arming switches. "The board is green. All systems are secured for jump."

"Start the count."

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five..."

*****

Twenty yards down the corridor, O'Neil pressed the transmit button on his radio. "Danny, do it now."

In a nearby maintenance shaft, Munro flipped the breaker switches for the CIC power supply. An instant later, the control room was plunged into darkness as the lights died out.

This was their chance. "Now! Go! Go!"

With O'Neil at the front, the group charged into the CIC just as the lights flickered back on. Another group moved in from the starboard access hatch, overpowering the two marines on guard there.

"Nobody move!" O'Neil yelled, sweeping the room with his assault rifle.

Suddenly a shot rang out, and O'Neil felt something slam into his shoulder with sufficient force to spin him around. He could feel warm blood trickling down his side as he looked at Tarver, brandishing a pistol and already lining up his second shot. Without thinking, O'Neil raised his rifle and put a burst into his chest. The big man grunted in pain and surprise, held still for a moment, then collapsed to the deck.

That was all the fight that remained in the mutineers. All around the room, men were laying down their arms, refusing to fight. In the centre of it all stood Piran, frozen to the spot, eyes wide.

O'Neil walked towards him, still clutching his rifle and doing his best to ignore the pain that clawed at him. "It's over, Piran. Stand down."

The older man swallowed, the muscles in his throat moving up and down. "No," he replied defiantly.

"Enough people have died today," O'Neil said, finger tightening on the trigger. "One more won't make much difference."

Piran's eyes darted left, to the navigation console. The FTL status was blinking at green to show it was standing by.

O'Neil caught his look and guessed his intentions. "Don't even think about it. You wouldn't get two steps."

The older man hesitated for a moment, then finally laid his pistol down on the chart table. Immediately two men came forwards and seized him by the arms to lead him away.

"Wait!" he yelled, his eyes boring into O'Neil. "I was only doing what was best for the ship. You know that."

O'Neil glared at him. "You did what was best for yourself - that's all you've ever done, and that's why you failed here today. Get him out of my sight."

As the older man was led away, Samantha rushed forward to O'Neil. "You're hit," she said, trying to examine the wound.

He shook his head. "I'll live."

Such things could be attended to later, but right now he still had work to do.

O'Neil walked over to the telephones and picked up One MC. "Attention all hands, this is Commander O'Neil. An attempted mutiny has been put down, and the ringleaders are either dead or under arrest. Anyone who wishes to join them is free to make their intentions known right now."

He paused for a long moment before going on. "This has been a difficult time for all of us, and I'd be lying if I said we're through the worst of it. But the only way we're going to survive is if we work together. Whatever disagreements or differences we once had - Capricans, Taurons, Virgons... it doesn't matter now. We're people, nothing more and nothing less. And we have a job to do." He looked around the room, at the crewmen who had been deadly enemies only moments before. "This war isn't over."

*****

An hour later, O'Neil once more found himself staring at his own reflection in the flickering light of his wash room mirror. Doctor Harken had taken a look at the gunshot wound in his shoulder, and gruffly informed him that the bullet had passed straight through, missing the major arteries. In a couple of weeks he'd be fine, but for now the thing hurt like hell.

He walked through to his quarters and poured himself a glass of whisky, then sat down to make an entry in the ship's log.

_Colonial Dreadnought Endurance - Ship's log_

_Acting Commander Richard O'Neil _

_We have put down an attempted mutiny, led by Lieutenant Harold Piran. Nine have been killed and five wounded in the fighting, leaving us with 292 men and women fit for duty. The ship is in good order, for now at least, though I do not know what our next course of action will be. The Cylons are likely still orbiting the planet, waiting for us to come out. We have only two options - fight against overwhelming odds, or run and face an uncertain future. _

_I have yet to decide. _

He was just finishing up the log when someone knocked on his door. Taking a drink of whisky, he called out, "Come!"

The door opened and Samantha stepped into the room. "How are you feeling?"

O'Neil managed a grin. "I won't be pitching for a while, that's for sure," he said, rolling his injured shoulder experimentally. Seeing her troubled expression, he added, "Is something wrong?"

The young woman shook her head. "No, I just..."

"Just...?" he prompted.

She sighed and glanced at the bottle of whisky on his desk. "Is that offer of a drink still open?"

He smiled. "Always."

He poured a second glass and handed it to her. She held it up for a moment, watching as the light played on the amber liquid, then held it to her lips and drained the whole glass in one gulp.

O'Neil raised an eyebrow. "It's going to be that kind of night, huh?"

"It's been that kind of day," she said, holding out her glass for a refill. He was happy enough to oblige. She smiled. "You know, I used to hate drinking. My dad was a drinker - a big one. Drank himself right into the grave. I always swore I'd never end up like him."

"And now?" O'Neil asked.

"Doesn't really matter now, does it?" she said frankly, taking another drink as she sat down on the leather sofa. "This is the end. We're all going to die here - it's just a question of how we go out."

She took another drink - a deep one. It wasn't settling well in her stomach, judging by the shudder that passed through her.

O'Neil stood up and rounded the desk to join her. "It's not over yet, Sam."

She gulped down another mouthful and stared at him for a moment. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Stay in control like this. No matter what happens, you always seem to take it in your stride. It's like you were born for this stuff."

O'Neil laughed, taking a drink himself.

The young woman frowned. "What's so funny?"

He stood up, walked over to the desk and typed a few commands into the computer, then turned it around so she could see it. "Read."

Samantha stood up and moved closer, resting her hands on the desk so she could read it. Her eyes opened wider as they scanned down his unsent message of resignation to Fleet Command.

O'Neil stood with his arms folded, watching her reactions as she read. She was close - close enough for him to smell her subtle perfume, the scent of her hair. She was a beautiful woman; dark skinned, slender and graceful, with dark eyes that seemed to shimmer with hidden thoughts and feelings. Her full lips were parted, and her face slightly flushed from the drink as she read.

Finally she turned and looked at him. "This is what you were working on when I interrupted you yesterday?"

He nodded grimly. "I'm a fraud, Sam. I was going to turn in my stripes yesterday - I was finished with the Fleet. Now I'm in command of a Dreadnought." He shook his head and took another drink. "Life's got a sweet sense of irony."

"But you're in charge now."

He shrugged. "I didn't have much choice. There was nobody else."

She looked up at him, her dark eyes locked with his. "You know what? None of it matters now. Whatever we did before this, it's all gone. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you were with us."

He sighed, but nodded. "Thanks."

"So what now? What's going to happen to us?"

There was no point in lying to her. "I don't know," he admitted.

She moved a step closer. Somehow, without moving, her gaze had taken on a different look - closer, more intimate, more vulnerable. She reached out and placed a hand on his chest, just letting it rest there lightly. "I don't want to be alone," she whispered.

Without realising it, he had slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, feeling the firm warmth of her body pressed against him. He wanted her. The danger and the death that they'd passed through had pushed them both to breaking point, and now he wanted nothing more than to be with someone, to feel the touch of another human being. She tilted her head back and leaned in, her lips finding his as they kissed.

*****

Some time later they lay together on the bed, their naked bodies entangled. Samantha lay with her head resting on his chest, one leg thrown over him. He was staring up at the ceiling, not really thinking about anything. It was a blessed relief after having life and death decisions resting on his shoulders.

"I wanted to do this for a long time," Samantha said, her voice quiet and soft.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I was worried. I thought you wouldn't be interested." She chuckled. "Now I figured I didn't have much to lose." She sat up and pulled her vest back on, then looked at him and smiled. "But it was worth waiting for."

He grinned too. "Glad to hear it."

"What are we going to do, Rick?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "If we fight, we'll probably lose. There's at least two base ships out there waiting for us." He ran his hands through his hair. "Or we can run and take our chances."

"It's your choice. What do you want to do?"

*****

_CAPRICA CITY_

_ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER_

_O'Neil slumped down in his corner, aching, covered in sweat, gasping for breath. It was the end of the fourteenth round; there was only one more to go, and he was exhausted. The crowd was roaring and cheering, baying for more blood. They were watching the fight of their lives, and they loved it._

_His corner men went to work on his battered body immediately, trying to staunch the bleeding in the cut over his left eye, and applying a cold compress to his bruised ribs. _

_"How you feeling, son?" Jack, his trainer, asked. Jack was a short, stocky man, about sixty years old, with thin wispy grey hair and a deeply lined and expressive face. His life had been neither short nor easy, but his eyes were still sharp and vivid. _

_"I'm hurting," O'Neil gasped. At least one of his knuckles was cracked. He could feel the pain radiating out from the damaged joint, coursing in waves up his arm to his brain. _

_"Yeah, well, so's the other guy." _

_O'Neil glanced past Jack and the others, looking at his opponent on the other side of the ring. He was arguing with his trainer. The man was shouting and pleading with him, but he was shaking his head, pushing aside the pleas and the protests. They were begging him to throw in the towel, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't stop. _

_"Why isn't he beaten, then?" O'Neil demanded. "This was supposed to be a walkover, Jack. What's wrong with him?"_

_He'd given everything he had, but the other guy had absorbed his best punches and kept coming. He didn't counter-attack often, but every time he did, he connected. He chose his moments wisely, and the damage was starting to tell. _

_Suddenly the old man leaned forward, his face only inches away so O'Neil couldn't see around him. "Because he's fighting for pride. Don't you get it? That's all he's got left, and that's the only thing you can't take away from him."_

_O'Neil stared back at him open mouthed. He'd made a serious mistake with this fight. Anticipating an easy contest, he'd only done minimal training, and his stamina was lacking. He was burned out. _

_"So what do I do?" he asked. _

_"Knock him out! He's hurting and so are you, it's just a question of who wants this more. He won't back off and he won't stop - you have to stop him!" _

_Nearby, the timekeeper yelled to be heard over the crowd. "Ten seconds!" _

_"This is it," Jack said. "One more round. This is your time, kid. Now get in there and finish this!"_

_Taking a deep breath, O'Neil rose up on weary legs and prepared himself for the last round._

*****

O'Neil nodded to himself. The decision had practically made itself. "We're going to fight," he said quietly.

Samantha turned to look at him, her dark eyes flashing in the light. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"They hit us at the shipyards, and we ran away. They killed billions of our people, and we ran away. They came after us after we jumped, and we ran away again." He shook his head again. "No more. We make our stand here and now. And I'd rather go down fighting than give up and run away."

"Even if it means we all die here?"

O'Neil smiled. "We're not finished yet. And I've got an idea."


	10. Resolution

Chapter 10 - Resolution

All eyes were on O'Neil as he walked into CIC. Twenty minutes earlier, he'd put out an alert for all able bodied hands to report to their duty stations and await an announcement from him. Now they knew that announcement was about to come.

He looked around the room, his eyes meeting each crew member in turn before stopping at Greene. "Mr Greene, what is the status of the FTL drive?"

"Up and running, sir," the older man reported. "The board is green."

O'Neil nodded and turned to Harper. "Weapons, Mr Harper?"

"All main and secondary batteries standing by, sir."

"Good." He turned to Munro. "One MC, please."

Munro handed him the phone that would broadcast his voice throughout the ship. He took it, but for several moments remained silent. The tension began to build in the CIC as crew stared over their consoles, waiting for what was to come.

"Crew of the _Endurance_, this is your Commander speaking," he began at last. "As I'm sure you are all aware, the Twelve Colonies are gone, and there is a good chance that the Fleet has also been wiped out. Regardless of what happens from now on, our old way of - everything we once knew and cared about - is over. As for our present situation, there are at least two Cylon base ships waiting for us outside this planet's atmosphere. Suffice to say, they'll come at us with everything they have if we show ourselves."

He removed the phone and looked down at the chart table for a moment, trying to find the right words before he went on. "We have a choice here today - all of us. We can run and hide, try to find a habitable planet to colonise and hope that somehow the Cylons never find us. It might get us out of immediate danger, but... there are no guarantees. Or... we can stand and fight."

His eyes once again moved over the crewmen hanging on his every word. They were all so young, so inexperienced. And yet, they'd seen more action in the past couple of days than most officers saw in a lifetime.

"Before we make our decision, let's be clear about what we're facing. We'll be outnumbered, outgunned, facing an enemy with superior technology and the ability to launch hundreds of raiders at us. In all likelihood, this will be our last stand. And if we fall here, no stories will ever be told about us, no histories will be written, no memorials will be built. Nobody will ever know how we fought, and how we died. But if we win...

"If we win, we'll have reminded the Cylons of what humans are capable of; that no matter how much we get beaten down and destroyed, we can always rise up again. We'll never stop, we'll never back down, we'll never give up." He paused before going on. "You've all done a remarkable job under impossible circumstances. I can demand no more of you as a commanding officer, so instead I'm going to leave the choice with you – each section, each compartment, each one of you. If you agree that we should stand and fight, set your section's readiness to Condition One. Please decide now."

O'Neil turned his eyes to the status board. At the moment, all compartments and sections were red. Then they started to change - the first one came about ten seconds after he'd finished speaking. It was soon followed by another, and another, and another. Soon the board was lighting up. In under a minute, every light was burning green.

O'Neil nodded. "It's agreed, then. We fight."

"So say we all!" Munro shouted.

"So say we all!" replied every man and woman in the CIC.

"_So say we all!_" he shouted again.

On every deck, in every compartment of the great ship, the reply echoed back along the corridors. "_So say we all!_"

O'Neil clicked the phone off and placed it back in its cradle as Samantha walked towards him. He smiled, ready to embrace her, to tell her how much she meant to him and how grateful he was for everything she'd done. But something about the look in her eyes caused his smile to fade. There was no warmth in them, no emotion, nothing. They were cold and blank, like a machine.

He watched, too shocked to move, as she reached behind her, pulled out a sidearm and levelled it at his head. Strangely, he felt no fear. There wasn't time for that. As her finger tightened on the trigger, his only thought was that this shouldn't be happening.

Then suddenly there was a blur of movement from the right, and the gun was knocked aside just as she pulled the trigger. The room echoed with the report of the gunshot, stunning the CIC crew into silence. But that same shot was enough to snap O'Neil out of his reverie, and he rushed forward as Munro wrestled Samantha to the ground.

She wasn't a big woman by any standard, yet she seemed endowed suddenly with a superhuman strength. With a hard shove, she sent the stocky man flying across the room. Free once more, she turned to retrieve the pistol she'd dropped moments before. Too late.

"Don't move," O'Neil said, covering her with the weapon.

She froze, and at that moment the cold, calculating look vanished from her eyes. She was herself again, looking confused and frightened, as if she'd just awoken from a nightmare.

"Rick?" she said, tears welling up.

"Why did you do it, Sam?" he demanded, trying to keep his own voice steady. Of all the people to betray him, why her? Why now?

"I…" She trailed off, having no answer.

"Are you working for the Cylons? Is that it?" When she didn't speak, he thumbed back the hammer on the pistol. "Answer me!"

The young woman raised her chin a little, though tears continued to flow down her cheeks. "No, I'm not working for the Cylons. I… _am_ a Cylon."

At that moment, everything stopped for O'Neil. The ship, the Cylons, the people around him – they were all gone. All that remained was him, frozen with utter shock and incredulity.

"Marines!" he shouted. "Get her out of here. Take her to the brig."

As she was hauled away, O'Neil turned to Munro. He was bruised and battered, but on his feet. "You all right, Danny?"

"Yeah, I'll live," he said quickly. "Someone please tell me what the frak is going on."

"I wish I knew," O'Neil admitted. "But I'm going to get some answers."

*****

A short time later, O'Neil stood on the outside of the ship's brig, looking at the lone woman sitting in the steel cage. Her eyes were still red with tears and her long dark hair was tangled and knotted. Hearing the clang of boots on the deck, she looked up at him.

"Rick, I'm so sorry. I didn't want this to happen…"

"Save it. I want answers," he said, trying to keep his voice cold and emotionless. "Why did you try to kill me?"

"I told you. I'm a Cylon. It's what I was programmed –"

"Shut up!" he shouted, unable to hold back. "How is that possible? I've seen Cylons in museums – they're big, clunky, metal. You're human! I've seen you get cut and bruised. I've seen you laugh and cry."

"Things have changed, Rick," she replied. "We can look human now."

This wasn't possible. His mind refused to accept it. "Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? So we can blend into your society. So we could walk amongst you, learn your secrets and your weaknesses."

He backed away a pace, as if her words had hit him like a physical blow. His eyes were wide with shock as the truth finally dawned on him. "It was all a lie, wasn't it? Everything you said to me." He thought about making love with her earlier. "Everything we did."

"No!" She pulled herself to her feet and moved as close as she could to him. "I meant what I said to you. I didn't know what I was. It was only when I tried to kill you in the CIC that I understood what I was, and why I was here."

"Why are you here?"

She swallowed. "To learn more about you. To put humans together in a confined space with no hope of rescue. We wanted to understand how you would deal with it, what you would do to each other. Once I'd learned everything I could, my programming took over and I was supposed to take you out."

It had been her idea to hide in the atmosphere of the gas giant, he realised. She'd been playing them all along. "So we were just your own personal science experiment."

"It wasn't like that!" she protested. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"Don't!" he snapped, jabbing a finger at her. "Don't, Sam. Don't pretend you still care. You're just… a machine." He sighed and looked down for a moment. "Are there any others… like you aboard?" he finally asked.

She shook her head. "No. It was just me."

He forced himself to look at her, to meet her gaze. "Then you know what I have to do."

She straightened up and lifted her chin. "I know."

*****

Half an hour later, Samantha Tyler stood alone in the airlock, with a squad of armed marines facing her. O'Neil walked forward and removed her handcuffs. He couldn't prevent what was about to happen, but he could pay her this small courtesy.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, Sam," he said, taking a step back.

There was no fear in her eyes when she looked at him. "I know you are. And for what it's worth, I meant everything I said to you… before. I hope you make it, Rick."

His voice was ragged when he spoke again. "Are you ready for this?"

Samantha swallowed and nodded.

O'Neil turned and retreated to the inner door, reached up and pressed the Close switch. Samantha's eyes were on him the whole time as the hydraulic system worked.

"I'll see you again," she said, as the door locked in place.

O'Neil reached for the outer door lever, closed his eyes and pulled it. When he opened them again, the airlock was empty. She was gone.

*****

Half an hour later, O'Neil looked around the small circle of officers as he finished presenting his plan. "That's it. Anybody have anything they want to say?"

Munro was first to voice his thoughts. "It's pretty crazy. Has anything like this even been tried before?"

O'Neil shrugged. "There's a first time for everything, Danny. Anyway, crazy's all we've got right now."

"But, I mean, firing both broadsides at once… Will the ship even handle it?" Harper asked.

The recoil from a Dreadnought's main armament was considerable, often causing them to veer slightly off course during a major action. For this reason, regulations cautioned against firing the port and starboard batteries simultaneously, otherwise they risked serious structural damage.

O'Neil glanced at his damage control officer. "Well? What do you think?"

The blonde woman shrugged. "It doesn't matter much at this point, does it?"

Munro gave her a sour look. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not survive this battle only to have the ship fall apart around us."

"Structurally, the ship's about as good as she's going to get. The nuke hit buckled in some of the dorsal armour, and a few of the missiles did damage, but none of them penetrated the secondary hull. From what we can tell, the lateral framework is still solid, but…"

"But?" Munro prompted.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "The _Endurance_ is over sixty years old. She fought in the First Cylon War, and she's taken a pounding lately. Ships this age can suffer from metal fatigue, micro-fractures – a dozen different things that our sensors can't pick up."

O'Neil folded his arms. "She's tough. She can handle it. Anyway, I think it's worth the risk."

Munro nodded. "Agreed."

"Agreed," Harper added.

"It's settled, then. We go for it."

Each of the officers in the room nodded agreement.

"Listen, while you're all here, there's one other thing we need to deal with." O'Neil walked over to his desk, fished around in the drawer and returned with a small wooden box which he set down on the conference table. "We might not get another chance to do this, and I wanted us to go into battle as we should. A ship needs a proper command crew."

First of all, he opened the box and handed two small gold oak leafs. "Danny, I'm promoting you to Major. You're the ship's XO – you deserve an appropriate rank."

For a moment, the younger man looked genuinely lost for words. He stared at the gold leafs in his hand for a few seconds, mouth open, then looked up at O'Neil and managed a salute. "I'll do my best to live up to it, sir."

O'Neil smiled. "I know you will."

The others in the room received similar promotions. Harper became a Captain, much to his joy, while Greene and Starke became full Lieutenants. They all knew it didn't really mean much – that these were field promotions which could just as easily be revoked if they ever returned to official Fleet duties, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the gesture, and the realisation of how highly O'Neil thought of them.

Once he'd finished, he saluted them all and asked them to return to the CIC, where he would join them shortly.

*****

_Dreadnought Endurance – Ship's log_

_Richard O'Neil commanding_

_The crew and I have decided to fight. The odds are against us, and even if we win today, there is a good chance we will meet our end out here in space, far from home. But maybe none of that matters now. Maybe what matters is that today, here and now, the Colonial Fleet made their last stand, and it was a good one. _

_For myself, I can only say that it was an honour to serve aboard this ship. And if anyone should ever find this log, know that the crew of the Endurance did their duty and fought to the end. _

Finishing up the log, O'Neil set the heavy document down on the desk and walked through to the wash room to shave. He hadn't had a chance to do it since the day of the attack, and that felt like a lifetime ago. But he was the Commander of a Dreadnought now, and he was expected to set an example to the crew.

He leaned over the sink as hot water flowed into it. Something was different in here, he knew. Yet he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He glanced up at his reflection in the mirror, and only then did the penny drop. The light had stopped flickering at last. Now it burned bright and steady, as if it had come straight out of the factory. It was as if the old ship herself had sensed the urgency of their situation, and had hardened herself for one last action.

She was ready to fight her last round.

He watched as a tear rolled down his cheek. He'd kept himself under control, refusing to let thoughts of Samantha cloud his judgement. But alone now in his quarters, he couldn't help it. He'd cared for her deeply, and now she was gone. He had killed her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

*****

When O'Neil walked into the CIC a short time later, his back was straight and his chin up. This was his ship, the crew his to command. He had never felt more proud in his life.

"One MC," he said. When Munro handed him the phone, he held it up to his mouth and glanced around the room for a moment before speaking. "All hands, this is Commander O'Neil. We're about to go into battle, perhaps for the last time. I can't promise any of you that we'll make it out of this one, but I _can_ tell you that this ship has a long history. She's fought a lot of battles in her life, and she's always brought her crew home safely. She's earned a lot of honours, and now it's up to us, here and now, to live up to that legacy. You've already earned my respect and my gratitude, and if this is to be _Endurance's_ last battle, let's make it a good one." He paused for a moment, wondering if he would ever give such an order again. "All hands, man your battle stations. Set Condition One throughout the ship."

As alarms sounded and the crew hurried to their action stations, O'Neil turned to the helmsman. "Helm, new course zero-nine-zero. Take us up, half ahead."

The old Dreadnought's engines rumbled with increased power, and the massive ship rose up through the swirling clouds. Within a couple of minutes, the DRADIS screens began to clear as they left behind the gas giant's electromagnetic interference. They were in open space once more.

It wasn't long before their presence was detected.

"Sir, two Cylon Baseships just jumped in!" Greene reported. A moment later, a third blip appeared on the DRADIS screen. "Make that three. The first two are moving to flank us."

O'Neil nodded. "Very well. Take us straight down the middle."

Munro looked at him across the table. "Three against one. Sounds like fun."

O'Neil smiled faintly. "We'll see."

"Baseships launching raiders, sir."

"Steady as she goes." He glanced over at Greene, who was also manning the FTL console. "Standby, Mr Greene."

The older man nodded.

The looming forms of the Three Baseships bore down on them, but the Dreadnought continued on defiantly, not breaking course or turning away. Her hull was scarred and marked by battles old and new, but she was a fighting ship to the end. And this was the last round of her life. 


	11. The last round

Chapter 11 - The last round

_CAPRICA CITY_

_ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER_

_Tired, bruised and battered, the two fighters emerged from their corners for the last round. One was younger, stronger and fitter, but not as confident as he had been at the start of the fight. This hadn't been the walkover, the easy stepping stone to the title bout that he'd expected. It had been a hard, brutal slog, and it was telling. _

_The other fighter was older, battered and bleeding, chest heaving as he gulped in more air. But he remained defiantly on his feet, his jaw set with determination as he moved forward to meet his opponent. _

"Baseships launching missiles!" Greene reported. "Range, twenty-two thousand metres and closing. Raiders coming in behind them, at least a hundred."

O'Neil nodded. He wasn't overly keen to close the range yet. "Steady as she goes, helm. Keep us at half speed."

"Aye, sir."

"Missile range, fifteen thousand metres and closing fast."

Munro grinned at him across the table. "You realise we're playing chicken with a four hundred thousand tonne spaceship?"

O'Neil smiled. "It's fun, isn't it? Fire Control, standby all weapons."

Harper nodded, well aware of the gravity of the situation. Their survival depended on him and his gun captains. "Main and secondary batteries ready in all respects, sir."

"Very good. Mr Greene, what's the status of the FTL?"

"Spooled up and ready, sir. Jump coordinates laid in. The board is green." He returned to the DRADIS screen. "Missile range, ten thousand metres. Raiders aren't far behind. I'm detecting radiation spikes - there's nukes in there somewhere."

"Come on, come on. Closer," O'Neil whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on the DRADIS readout.

"Estimated time to impact, fifteen seconds,." Greene was looking nervous now. "Ten seconds!"

"Standby FTL," he ordered.

"Seven... six. Sir, we have to jump!"

"Not yet."

"Four!"

Munro looked at him. "Rick, the hour's getting late."

"Two seconds!"

They'd waited long enough. He turned to Greene. "Jump the ship!"

Missiles swarmed in against them, but just as it seemed they must impact, the Dreadnought suddenly disappeared in a flash of light, only to reappear an instant later right in the middle of the two Baseships, having jumped only twenty kilometres or so. The missiles which had been poised to impact now streaked harmlessly away, some disappearing into the gas giant's atmosphere to detonate deep within the clouds.

"Baseships three thousand metres to port and starboard!" Greene yelled, his face flushed with excitement. "You did it, sir!"

O'Neil felt excitement rush through him. Their plan had worked! Now they had two Baseships within firing range, and no raiders to defend them. Just once, they'd caught the Cylons unawares. But once was all it took.

Harper spoke up a moment later. "Sir, I have firing solutions on both targets!"

O'Neil turned to him, gripped the chart table tightly, and spoke a single command. "Fire."

_Ducking beneath a clumsy, tired punch, the older fighter moved in close, drew back his fist and slammed it into his opponent's ribs with enough force to bruise flesh and crack bones. The younger man grunted in pain as the old figher moved in to press home his advantage. _

"All batteries commence fire!" Harper yelled.

The two Baseships began to swing around on their axes to bring their weapons to bear, but it was too late. As _Endurance_ moved between the the Cylon vessels at flank speed, all of her main and secondary arsenals were unleashed at once in a single awesome display of firepower. Caught unprepared, the Baseships were devastated by the crippling barrage, their graceful spires disintegrating in expanding blossoms of flame and debris. Ruptured compartments spewed wreckage and Cylon bodies out into space as armour piercing shells tore through internal bulkheads.

The Baseship to port tilted backward on its axis as its engines failed, and explosions and atmospheric venting pushed it off course. It was dead, lurching out of control with flames gouting from a dozen massive shell holes. Tracer fire and fragmentation rounds from _Endurance's_ secondary batteries continued to pour into it as eager gun commanders sought to take revenge on their enemies. They were so close that even the lighter weapons found their mark.

To starboard, a volley of heavy calibre shells tore through the Baseship's central core. The upper spires appeared to fall downward as the great ship collapsed in on itself, and then suddenly it was engulfed in an inferno as internal magazines detonated with a flash.

In _Endurance's_ CIC, sparks flew from shorted out lights and computers as shockwaves travelled through the ship's beams. Dreadnought's were strong ships, but the recoil of their own guns were as much a danger to them as enemy fire. Firing both main batteries at once taxed the ship's superstructure to the limit.

"Damage report!" O'Neil yelled, taken aback by the force of the ship's guns.

Starke scanned her readouts. "We're okay, I think. Lateral frames are holding."

"Look!" Munro said, pointing at the DRADIS screen.

O'Neil glanced up, watching in amazement as the large contact of the second Baseship disintegrated before their eyes. The reactor or the magazines must have gone up. The first ship was already reduced to smaller fragments.

"Unbelievable," he breathed, awed by the destruction they had caused. In under a minute, they had taken out two Cylon Baseships without the aid of any missiles or fighter strikes.

The CIC erupted in cheers as news spread.

*****

"Frak!" One yelled in a rare display of emotion. He watched the computer readouts in front of him, his dark old eyes smouldering in anger at the realisation that two of their Baseships had just been obliterated by an obsolete Colonial warship.

"Not as obsolete as we were led to believe," Six commented sardonically. "First _Galactica_, now this. The humans are just full of surprises."

One rounded on her. "I'm glad you're finding this so amusing, Six. Thousands of our brothers and sisters are dying as we speak!"

At that moment, a Three strode forward. "Because of _you_, John," she said accusingly. "You could have destroyed them at the yards, but you let them get away. You believed you could destroy them any time you chose. You underestimated them, just as they once underestimated us. Haven't you learned anything from them?"

"_Don't_ call me John!" he snapped, jabbing a finger at her. With that, he turned towards the Baseship's control station once more. "I started this little project, and I'm going to finish it. Full attack."

*****

"The third Baseship's launching missiles, sir!" Greene reported. "A full volley. They're coming right for us."

In an instant, O'Neil had made his decision. They'd planned for this, and now it was time to see it through. "Helm, take us right at them. All ahead flank!"

"Aye, sir!"

Swinging around in a wide arc, Endurance rumbled past the flaming wreckage of the two Baseships, heading for her remaining opponent. Missiles streaked in against her. Her Point Defence Guns flashed, striking them down by the dozen, but inevitably some made it through, detonating against her armoured hull.

The CIC shook as more high explosive warheads went off. They were facing directly at their enemies, meaning that the forward armour - the strongest and heaviest on the ship - was taking the brunt of the punishment. But even this couldn't hold out forever.

"Battery Two is out of action!" Harper reported. "They took a direct hit. It picked off the armour."

"Adjust Batteries One and Three to compensate," O'Neil ordered. "And keep those secondary batteries firing. Range to Baseship?"

"Range down to ten thousand," Greene replied.

O'Neil turned his attention back to Harper. "Forward main batteries, fire!"

_The younger fighter lashed out at his opponent, landing stinging lefts and rights that reopened old cuts. The older man waded forward, weathering the blows like the old warrior he was. He'd been hurt many times in his career, and he wasn't afraid any more. This was the last fight of his life. _

The Dreadnought's forward turrets opened up, sending a salvo of high explosive shells at the rapidly approaching Baseship. Some missed, the hastily aimed shots going wide, but several found their mark, detonating against the Cylon vessel's hull and crumpling the outer armour. Flames began to blossom from ruptured compartments.

"Raiders closing in!" Greene warned. "They've caught up with us!"

The Cylon raiders that had been dispatched to attack them before they had jumped had immediately whirled around to engage their enemies again. They had failed to prevent the destruction of the first two Baseships, but they were determined to take revenge now. They descended on their target, spraying cannon fire and missiles almost indiscriminately, as if caught in a frenzy.

Munro winced as the CIC shuddered with the impacts. "We can't take much of this, Rick."

"Ignore it," O'Neil ordered. That third Baseship was his priority. "What's our range now?"

"Five thousand."

"Helm, keep our course steady." He turned to Munro. "Sound collision alarm."

Taking a deep breath, the XO pressed a button on one of the consoles near the chart table. Immediately a harsh klaxon rang throughout the ship.

"Whatever happens, it was nice knowing you, Rick," Munro said.

O'Neil looked at him. Munro had been a good XO, and a good friend. "And you," he said quietly.

Greene steadied himself as a particularly heavy impact rocked the room. "Range, three thousand and closing fast!"

O'Neil grabbed One MC. "All hands, brace for collision!"

*****

In the control room of the Cylon ship, Cavil stood open mouthed as events unfolded in front of him. "To hell with this. Jump us out of here," he ordered.

The screens in front of him flashed red. "The FTL drive is offline," Number Three said. She shook her head. "You arrogant bastard. You planned for everything, didn't you? Everything except what's happening now."

He turned to look at her. And for once, he was at a loss for words.

*****

_Endurance_ ploughed into the Baseship with all force that four hundred thousand tonnes of metal impacting at close to five hundred miles an hour imparted. Her armoured bow drove deep into the Cylon vessel, tearing apart whole decks, internal partitions and machinery as it thundered on. Explosions and decompressions blasted out on all sides as the two vessels, now locked together like two stags in heated battle, drifted back towards the atmosphere of the gas giant.

In the CIC, everyone in the room was thrown off their feet by the force of the impact. Computers shorted out, lights cracked and died, and glass panels shattered. The old metal hull creaked and groaned under the strain, and over in one corner of the room, a high pressure pipe ruptured, spraying steam.

O'Neil picked himself up with difficulty, clutching his injured shoulder. He'd landed awkwardly, and he was sure the gunshot wound had reopened.

"Damage report!" he heard himself say.

Starke shook her head, trying to regain her composure. It took her a moment to scan the screens and boards in front of her. "We've got hull breaches in Sections Four, Five and Six. The armour's buckled in. And there's fires on Decks Two and Five."

"Seal off those sections and vent them," O'Neil ordered. There was no time to get fire fighting teams down there. Anyway, just about every able bodied crewman was manning a gun turret. He turned to the XO, who was picking himself up off the deck. "You okay, Danny?"

"Hard to tell," the younger man admitted. He looked around the room. "I can't believe we're still alive."

"They built them good in the old days."

To some extent, Dreadnoughts were actually designed to do what they'd just done. The forward armour was as strong as the materials and construction methods of the day would allow. Still, slamming into an enemy capital ship at high speed had defeated even this immensely strong armour belt. He wondered how badly the hull had been compromised.

"Sir, we've got a problem," Greene said.

"What is it?"

"We're being dragged down by the gas giant's gravity. At this rate, we'll hit the atmosphere in under two minutes."

"Frak!" O'Neil turned to the helmsman. "Helm, full reverse thrust. We need to break away from this Baseship."

_Endurance's_ emergency thrusters rumbled with increased power. The hull groaned and shuddered under the strain, as if it was being pulled apart at the seams, yet still they didn't move. They were jammed deep within the Cylon Baseship, and there was no way for them to break free. It was pulling them down to their deaths.

"She's not moving, sir!" the helmsman reported.

"Can you give us any more power?" O'Neil asked in desperation.

The young man shook his head. "We're maxed out. That's all she can give us."

"One minute thirty seconds."

"FTL?" O'Neil asked.

"Offline," Greene said grimly.

Munro looked at him. "That's all we can do."

For a moment, the CIC fell silent as the truth settled on them. They were going to get pulled down into the planet's atmosphere until the extremes of heat and pressure crushed them along with their enemies.

_Both fighters were locked in a clinch, battered and exhausted, almost leaning on each other for support. The final bell was only seconds away. Sweat trickled off their bruised bodies as they fought for breath. Then suddenly the older man was able to summon up whatever energy he had left, drew back his fist and drove it into his opponent's side. The younger fighter doubled up in pain, his grip slackening. _

In a sudden moment of inspiration, O'Neil turned to Harper. "Gunnery control, do any of the forward main batteries still work?"

"One minute to atmosphere."

Harper consulted his status boards. "Erm... Batteries Three and Five are still online."

"Open fire."

"But they're _inside_ the Cylon Baseship," he protested.

"I know! Fire them! Now!"

Endurance's remaining forward weapons unleashed a storm of metal deep into the Cylon vessel, blasting straight through internal partitions and breaking apart structural beams. Exploding and burning, the Baseship started to collapse in on itself. And with a final tearing lurch, the _Endurance_ slipped free of the wreckage.

"We're free!" Greene yelled.

"Helm, get us out of here! All ahead flank!"

"Aye, sir!"

Battered and scarred but still defiant, _Endurance_ rose up once again. Beneath her, the crumpled wreckage of the Cylon Baseship disappeared into the planet's atmosphere, never to return. Explosions lit the clouds as her magazines went off. Meanwhile, the raiders which had held back earlier for fear of hitting their own Baseship now descended on the old warship with a vengeance.

O'Neil clung to the chart table as the CIC was rocked by more explosions. They were taking a pounding, and with no Vipers to defend them, it was just a matter of time before they succumbed.

"Batteries Fourteen, Fifteen and Sixteen are out of action," Harper said, struggling to keep his balance as another explosion rumbled through the ship's old beams.

"Switch the main batteries to fragmentation rounds," O'Neil ordered. There were no capital ships for them to fight now anyway.

Another explosion echoed through the room, and the Gunnery Control Centre was engulfed in a shower of sparks. "Harper, you all right?" Munro asked.

"I think so," the young man replied. He scanned his boards - none of them were illuminated. "Gunnery Control's offline. I've got nothing."

"Then switch targeting to independent fire. Tell the gun crews to keep firing as long as they can," O'Neil said. Every raider they destroyed drove the knife a little deeper into the Cylon hearts.

Starke shook her head as she scanned her status boards. "Sir, we've got hull breaches on Decks Twelve and Thirteen. Damage Control can't keep up with the fires. It's just a matter of time, sir."

Greene looked up from his DRADIS screen. "New DRADIS contact. I think it's another Baseship. It's closing in fast."

O'Neil looked around the room, at the brave men and women who had fought to the end. They, and the ship, had done everything that was asked of them. This was it. "It's been an honour to serve with you all," he said.

"Oh my Gods!" Greene shouted. "It's not a Baseship!"

Outside, the massive sleek form of the Battlestar _Pegasus_ hurtled into the fray, main and secondary guns flashing, missiles streaking into the midst of the Cylon raiders. Squadrons of Vipers swept in from both sides, their cannons blazing.

In _Endurance's_ CIC, the ship's speakers crackled into life. "This is _Pegasus_ Actual. Stand by, Colonial vessel. We'll take care of these raiders for you."

O'Neil's hand was shaking when he picked up the phone to reply. "Roger that, _Pegasus_. We could sure use your help right now!"

Conflicting emotions whirled through his mind. They weren't the only Colonial vessel left! At least one Battlestar had survived. Maybe there were others out there?

The raiders were caught off guard, and dozens were cut down by the sudden onslaught. Blood and chunks of shattered armour flew in all directions as the Cylon ships attempted to regroup, while more were cut down by _Endurance's_ remaining anti-aircraft weapons. In under a minute, the Cylon raider force had been decimated. The remaining ships, sensing the futility of their situation, turned and fled. Two squadrons of Vipers sped off in pursuit, while the massive bulk of _Pegasus_ hovered protectively over the damaged Dreadnought.

"Attention, Colonial vessel. Identify yourself." It was a woman's voice, stern and authorative.

"This is the Colonial Dreadnought _Endurance_," O'Neil replied, unable to hide the pride in his voice. Dreadnoughts might have been an anachronism by most standards, but they had proven themselves here today.

"There _are_ no Dreadnoughts in the Colonial Ship Registry," _Pegasus'_ commander corrected him.

"There are now," he said. "We were in Reserve when the Cylons attacked."

"I see. Transmit authentication codes now."

O'Neil turned to Greene, a little perturbed by the lack of emotion in the woman's voice. He'd assumed she would have been happy to find a fellow Colonial warship. "Transmit the codes," he said quietly.

A few moments later, _Pegasus'_ commander was back on the horn, sounding a little more relaxed this time. "Codes confirmed, _Endurance_. Welcome back to the Fleet. What's your situation?"

O'Neil glanced around the smoke-filled room, at the flickering monitors and the shorted out control panels. "We've taken a beating, but we're hanging in there."

"Good. Stand by. We're coming over. _Pegasus_ Actual, out."


	12. The nature of the beast

Chapter 12 – The nature of the beast

Although _Endurance_ had none of the Viper handling facilities of a Battlestar, she did house a modest hangar on her ventral hull for the launch and recovery of half a dozen recon Raptors. Fleet Command had recognised that even a Dreadnought needed some idea of what she was blundering into. Unfortunately her squadron of Raptors had been offloaded during her decommissioning process sixteen years earlier, and there hadn't been time to embark more before the hasty departure from the Tauron shipyards.

It was outside this hangar that O'Neil now stood, along with Munro and a small marine detail, watching as the Raptor from _Pegasus_ touched down. The rest of the CIC crew were busy trying to get the damaged warship's systems back online and contain the damage from her last battle, and therefore couldn't be spared to pipe the Admiral aboard.

With _Pegasus'_ Viper wings providing CAP duty, _Endurance_ was limping away from Colonial space at half speed. There was no telling when another Cylon attack might descend on them, and with half their weapons out of action and their FTL offline, they were sitting ducks.

"So what do you know about her?" Munro asked.

"Admiral Cain? I know she's young for her rank, and she's well connected politically. She's a pretty tough commander from what I heard." It was widely rumoured that her rapid rise up the chain of command had more to do with her family's influence than her tactical abilities. Still, there was no denying that she was an aggressive and decisive military leader.

He glanced down at his dusty and rumpled uniform. A small patch of blood was spreading out from the gunshot wound on his shoulder, but there hadn't been time to change. Part of him was irked at having to do an official meet and greet when his ship was badly damaged, and many of his crew killed or wounded. Couldn't Cain have waited a couple of hours until things were more squared away?

Oh well, he supposed it wouldn't do to tell an Admiral to calm the frak down and wait until he was ready. Especially an Admiral in command of a fully armed _Mercury_ Class Battlestar.

"Real ball breaker then, huh?" the XO quipped.

O'Neil shot him a hard look. "Stow that shit, Major."

The younger man grinned. "Yes, sir."

With the airlock pressurised, the inner hatch slid slowly open on its hydraulic pistons to reveal a tall, dark haired woman in her mid-forties. She was of average build, and attractive in a rather severe way. But there was a hardness in her eyes that attested to the weight of command resting on her shoulders. Her back was held ramrod straight as her gaze swept across the slightly ragged group of officers facing her.

"Admiral on the deck!" O'Neil announced, snapping off a crisp salute.

Cain returned the salute, then walked forward to meet him. "Rear Admiral Helena Cain."

"Acting Commander Richard O'Neil." He gestured to Munro. "This is Danial Munro, my XO."

Can gestured to the tall, heavy-set man standing next to her. "Colonel Fisk. It's good to see you, Mr O'Neil," she said, reaching out and shaking his hand. Her grip was strong and her hand warm.

"Likewise, sir," he replied. The Fleet had done away with the term ma'am years ago. By their reckoning, an officer was an officer regardless of gender. "We were beginning to think we were the only Colonial ship left."

"You weren't far off," she assured him. She frowned and looked at him a little closer. "Have we met before?"

"I believe we have - at a Fleet dinner last year," he admitted, with an edge of discomfort in his voice. He'd been a Major back then, and hotly tipped to be _Atlantia's_ next CAG. As he recalled, Cain had taken a liking to him during their brief introduction, and the opinion had been reciprocated. Whatever else he'd heard about her, she had a commanding presence, and a natural charisma that he found compelling.

"Of course." She smiled briefly before returning to business. "I must admit, I wouldn't mind knowing how a Dreadnought happened to find itself out here, surrounded by Cylon raiders."

"That's kind of a long story. Maybe I could debrief you in my Ready Room?" he suggested.

She nodded agreement. "Lead on, Mr O'Neil."

Half an hour later, he'd finished presenting his report of their actions since the Cylon attack – the desperate battle at the shipyards, the destruction of the Endeavour, the blind FTL jump, the retreat into the gas giant's atmosphere, the attempted mutiny and the final battle against three Baseships.

"So that's pretty much how it went down, sir. We were fighting for our lives against the remaining raiders when you showed up," he concluded.

Cain remained silent for several seconds, clearly digesting everything he'd said. "That's quite a report, Mr O'Neil," she said at last. "You took out three Baseships alone? Without fighter support or nuke strikes?"

O'Neil nodded. "We got lucky."

"It seems to me there was more than luck on your side," she said. "You did well – fought a good fight with limited resources. If only we'd had more commanders like you, maybe we wouldn't be in this situation now."

O'Neil glanced away for a moment, uncomfortable under such praise. "About that, sir. What can you tell me about the Fleet? Are there any other survivors?"

Cain's expression darkened. "Our communications have been patchy, but from what we were able to tell, the Fleet's been wiped out. Just about every military vessel in service was upgraded to the CNP." She shook her head. "Poor bastards. They were crippled before they even got into the fight - they didn't stand a chance."

O'Neil nodded. "We figured they'd found some way to break through the firewall. We were lucky, then. Our computers aren't networked, and they never had the CNP installed. Most of them make pocket calculators look cutting edge." He exhaled slowly and took a drink. "What about _Pegasus_? How did you survive?"

The older woman was quiet for a few moments before speaking. "We were docked at Scorpion Shipyards for a six month refit. Most of our systems were offline when they attacked. They didn't disable us with the CNP, but nuke strikes almost wiped out the whole yard. I ordered a blind FTL jump, and that was enough to get us out of there."

"Gutsy move," he said with genuine respect. It was a hell of a risk to take with two and a half thousand men and women under your command.

The Admiral inclined her drink in acknowledgement. "There wasn't much choice. Anyway, we still lost seven hundred people." She sighed and shook her head. "Not our finest hour."

"Well, you're alive now. And so are we." He looked at her. "So what's the plan now, sir?"

"Plan?" she repeated. "There's no plan. When I ate breakfast this morning, I thought we were the only Colonial warship left in the galaxy." She sighed and leaned back in the chair. "The first thing we need to do is get _Endurance_ back in the fight, then we can plan our next move. What's your status?"

O'Neil glanced around, as if the answers lay in the metal beams surrounding them. "She took a beating, that's for sure. We're still assessing the structural damage, but we could use some qualified engineering teams over here. And we've got a lot of wounded to deal with."

Cain nodded as if she'd been expecting that. "We're short handed ourselves, but I'll send over anyone I can spare."

"A couple of Raptors wouldn't go amiss, either," he added. "We'll need them to survey the outer hull."

"Done," she said straight away. "There's one other thing I'd like to talk about – the chain of command here." Seeing him about to say something, she raised her hand, appealing for silence. "Relax, I'm not here to step in and take over. This is your ship, but I'd like to clarify that _Pegasus_ has seniority. In a combat situation, I'll expect _Endurance_ to follow our lead."

"Of course." There wasn't much point in arguing. Cain was a Rear Admiral, and he quite plainly wasn't.

"Good. Then we understand each other."

"There's one other thing, Admiral," he said, knowing he had to broach the subject sooner or later.

Cain leaned forward. "What's that?"

"Just before we went into battle, Samantha Tyler, our communications officer, pulled out a sidearm and tried to put a round through my head."

"Was she involved in the mutiny?"

O'Neil shook his head. "This was something else. When I questioned her afterward, she claimed she was a Cylon agent. She said that Cylons can look and act human now."

Her cool eyes wavered for a moment. "Do you believe her?"

He sighed, and it was several seconds before he replied. "Yes. You understand what this could mean, don't you? If there was a Cylon agent onboard _Endurance_…"

There was no need for him to finish that sentence. The implication was clear enough. "I understand," she cut in, giving him a hard look. "What did you do with her?"

O'Neil looked down at the amber liquid swirling around in his glass. "I put her in an airlock and opened it to space."

For a moment, he saw anger in her grey eyes. "You didn't interrogate her?"

"No."

"She might have had valuable intelligence," she reminded him.

He shook his head. "She was a sleeper agent, programmed to think she was human. It's unlikely they would have told her anything that could have compromised them."

It was partly true, but it wasn't the real reason. If he was honest with himself, he couldn't stand to see Samantha tortured and interrogated. Cylon or not, he'd cared about her more deeply than he wanted to admit.

The older woman looked at him for a long moment, her eyes boring into him, then finally raised her glass and took a drink. "That's a big assumption to make, Mr O'Neil."

"It was my call, sir," he said, meeting her gaze without flinching. To hell with it – he wasn't prepared to debate the issue with her.

The tension seemed to hang in the air between them for a moment, before Cain drained her drink and stood up. "Well, I think we're finished here. I'll make the arrangements to send over the personnel you requested."

*****

Together the two ships slid silently through the darkness of space; the old, ugly, battle-scarred Dreadnought and the sleek new Battlestar side by side. A squadron of Vipers patrolled around the two capital ships, keeping watch over their charges. And beside _Endurance_, a lone Raptor moved slowly along the hull, its searchlight illuminating the gloom.

"Wow," O'Neil gasped, staring out the cockpit at the damaged ship. The dull grey armour plating was now blackened and scarred, pitted and in some places blasted open.

He'd insisted on going outside himself to survey the damage, feeling that it was his responsibility as Commander. And yet, as impressive as the damage seemed, it was mostly superficial from what he could tell. He'd expected the forward hull to be crushed like a beer can after the collision with the Baseship, yet to his surprise it still looked remarkably sound. The hull plates had bucked inward in several places, and in one case an entire section of armour belt had been torn away, exposing the secondary hull beneath. But structurally it appeared to be sound. Most of the hull breaches had been sealed and the evacuated sections repressurised.

He hit the manouvering thrusters to back away, giving him a larger view of the ship. Instinctively he found himself comparing _Endurance_ to the massive shape of _Pegasus_ looming above them. Dreadnoughts weren't sleek and elegant like Battlestars, but harder and more severe in their lines.

The two ships were roughly equal in length, but there were no flight pods like on _Pegasus_, so she wasn't as wide as her Battlestar companion. She was taller however, to accommodate the massive main and secondary armament. The engine assembly at the stern was more or less the same configuration, but smaller on the Dreadnought. Pegasus was capable of far greater sub-light speeds.

"I wish we'd had you at the Tauron shipyard," he said, looking up at the Battlestar. _Endeavour_ might have still been with them.

And yet, as he watched the Pegasus moving in the darkness of space, his thoughts lingered on her commanding officer. Although he didn't sense outright hostility from her, the initial meeting with Cain had been a tense affair. And he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. It was as if she was holding something back, and he wondered what.

His thoughts were interrupted when Munro's voice sparked up over the radio. "How you doing out there, Rick?"

"Almost finished my sweep. I'll be back in ten minutes," he replied.

Whatever else happened, he had a ship to run.


	13. A new battle plan

Chapter 13 - A new battle plan

Making his way along the main corridor to the CIC, O'Neil encountered a young woman trying to lever open an access hatch. The locking mechanism was old and slightly warped from repeated use, making it hard to unlatch.

"Frakking piece of junk!" she snapped, giving the door a good hard kick as frustration got the better of her. The metal clang resounded through the corridor.

"You have to pull it upward a little, then it should turn easily," he said, deciding to offer some sage advice born from much trial and error.

The woman spun around, about to offer a few choice words of her own, then her eyes took in the bars on his shoulders. "Thanks for the advice, sir," she said after a moment.

He smiled. "Relax, Lieutenant. I've lost my temper a few times with that door." He nodded at a small dent in the metal surface at about boot height. "See that? That was me."

She blushed a little. "I guess _Pegasus_ had us all spoiled."

"She's quite a ship," he admitted. He knew what it was like to serve on a top-of-the-line Battlestar, and _Endurance_ was a long way from that. "What's your name, Lieutenant?"

"Shaw. Kendra Shaw. The Admiral sent me over to see what I could do for your targeting radars. I've been working in the CIC for the past couple of hours, but I wanted to take a look at the input relays."

"So what's your opinion, Lieutenant Shaw?"

"Honestly, sir?"

"Yeah."

She smiled ruefully. "Most of them are older than I am. I feel like I'm having to learn the ropes all over again, but I'll give it my best shot."

"Glad to hear it." He glanced up the corridor. "Well, I need to get to the CIC. Good luck, Lieutenant."

The CIC was busy as O'Neil strode in. There were half a dozen faces he didn't recognise; clearly crew who had come over from _Pegasus_ to assist with the repairs. He had to admit, it was a relief to have some fresh manpower at his disposal. With scarcely two hundred and fifty men and women aboard, _Endurance_ had begun to feel like a ghost ship.

Munro was waiting for him. "How were things outside, Rick?"

"She won't win any awards for good looks, but I guess she'll serve," O'Neil replied. "What's the status of the repairs?"

"Getting there. The _Pegasus_ repair teams seem real anxious to get the weapons back online, but they're less interested in securing the ship. Still, we've restored atmosphere to most of the damaged sections, and we've got engineering teams checking the superstructure." He shook his head in mock disbelief. "This ship just won't die."

The older man smiled. "She's got a strong heart. And a good crew," he added. Outnumbered and undermanned they might have been, but the ragtag group of trainees and cadets had risen to the occasion better than he ever could have expected.

"And now we've got a Battlestar to help us out," Munro said, unable to hide his excitement. "Maybe things are turning around."

O'Neil raised an eyebrow, remembering his earlier meeting with Cain. "Yeah. Maybe."

The XO knew him well enough to tell when something was troubling him. "Something I should know about?"

"We'll talk later, Danny," he said, unwilling to discuss it further. Some conversations were best held in private.

Leaving Munro for the time being, he walked over to Harper in the Gunnery Control Centre. The young man was using one of the phones, and as he approached, O'Neil caught the tail end of the conversation. "Okay, tie all three batteries into the same targeting radar. Let me know as soon as you're ready, and I'll fire it up from here."

"What's our weapon status?" O'Neil asked as Harper laid the phone down.

"We should have fire control back within the hour, sir. Main and secondary batteries are operational," Harper replied. "And I've got more good news - the guys from _Pegasus_ are bringing over a batch of Havoc anti-ship missiles. They're not nukes, but they pack quite a punch."

"Sounds good to me. Better than pointing empty launch tubes at the Cylons." They had been unable to find any missiles - nuclear or otherwise - in the Fleet Heavy Arsenal, meaning that their only offensive weapons were the ship's guns. Now they had some real ordinance at their disposal.

"That's the good news. I'm afraid there's bad news as well," Harper added, lowering his voice as if he didn't want anyone to overhear. "We've fired nearly a thousand rounds of heavy ordinance since we left the shipyards. We're down to about fifty percent of the arsenal."

O'Neil frowned, far from pleased by what he was hearing. "How? A Dreadnought can carry ten times that much."

"I know. But we left in a hurry - there wasn't time to take on a full load."

"Can we build more?"

The younger man shook his head. "Our workshops don't have any provisions for it. Restocking them was all part of the reactivation plan. That's why it was supposed to take six weeks."

"_Pegasus_ has manufacturing facilities," he said hopefully.

"Our main guns are bigger than theirs, so the shells are larger calibre. They'd have to retool their machines." He sighed. "It might work, but it would take time."

O'Neil nodded thoughtfully. "All right. Stay on it. Let me know when Gunnery Control is back online."

"Yes, sir."

Leaving him to get back to work, O'Neil walked over to Damage Control. Starke was there, working as hard as Harper had been. She nodded in greeting as he approached. "Did you get a good look at the outer hull, sir?"

"Yeah. I'd offer to take you out there, but I think you've got enough stress to deal with right now," he said.

Starke raised an eyebrow. "That's not filling me with confidence."

"It's not as bad as it looks," he amended. "Mostly superficial damage. How are things at your end?"

"Well, despite the best efforts of the Cylons, our gun captains and _you_, the ship's still more or less in one piece," she said with a pointed glance at him. "Ideally I'd recommend six months in space dock to replace the damaged armour plates, but I guess that's not an option now."

"Do you need anything from _Pegasus_?"

Her blonde brows drew together in a frown. "They seem more interested in the weapons than the structural damage, but I've got welding crews working on the most critical sections. All I can really do is patch her up, I'm afraid."

It was O'Neil's turn to frown. Starke was the second person to mention the _Pegasus_ repair team's preoccupation with _Endurance's_ offensive capabilities. What was going on? "When will we be combat ready?" he asked instead.

"The more time we have, the happier I'll be. But I guess we'll have her in some kind of shape in a couple of days. As for how much punishment she'll be able to take..." She threw her hands up in a gesture of ignorance. "I don't know."

He nodded acceptance. He couldn't ask much more from her. "Just do what you can. We need to keep her in the fight."

"Do you know what our plan is now?" she asked. Like everyone else, she was happy that they had found the _Pegasus_, but also curious to know what the hell they were going to do.

It was O'Neil's turn to make a gesture of ignorance. "That's up to the Admiral. Let me know if there's anything you need," he said, making to leave.

She spoke up just as he was turning away. "Rick."

He turned to face her once more. "Yeah?"

"About Samantha. I'm... sorry for what happened. I know the two of you were close."

He hesitated for a moment, thinking about the look in Samantha's eyes as he'd closed that inner airlock. "She had us all fooled," he said at last.

"Yeah."

He sighed, but nodded in gratitude. "I'd better get back to work."

His last port of call was Greene at the DRADIS station. The older man was hard at work, trying to coordinate his systems with his counterpart on Pegasus. The two DRADIS sets belonged to different eras, and getting them to talk to each other was no easy task.

"How you doing, Mr Greene?" O'Neil asked, waiting until the man's activity eased up a little.

Greene sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Busy, sir. The repair teams brought over some new gear that should upgrade our DRADIS system, but it's not easy to integrate."

"How are you getting along with the _Pegasus_ crew?" he asked, remembering his earlier talks with Starke and Munro.

"Fine, I guess," Greene said. "They're good workers, but they don't know our systems. It's like having a bunch of trainees aboard."

O'Neil grinned. "Then gods help us all."

For once, he saw Greene smile. "There's one other thing," he added. "I don't know if it means anything, but I've been seeing a lot of Raptor activity near _Pegasus_ over the past couple of hours. Not sure what it means, but they've been jumping in and out pretty regular."

"It might be recon sweeps," O'Neil reasoned. "They'd want to check this system for more Cylons."

"Maybe." Greene didn't look convinced.

They were interrupted when Munro called over from the chart table. "Rick! Incoming message from _Pegasus_. It's Admiral Cain."

O'Neil hurried over and took the phone from him. "This is _Endurance_ Actual."

Cain wasted no time on pleasantries. "Commander O'Neil, would you report to _Pegasus_ CIC at seventeen hundred hours?"

O'Neil checked his watch. That was about two hours from now. "Roger that. Seventeen hundred hours."

*****

A couple of hours later, O'Neil's Raptor touched down in Pegasus' starboard landing bay. Within minutes, an automated towing unit had brought him into the maintenance hangar, and the airlock was sealed behind him. He powered down the Raptor, stepped through into the crew area and opened the hatch.

There was a certain smell you always encountered when you stepped aboard a Battlestar for the first time – a curious mix of oil, Viper fuel, burned cordite, rubber, welding gear and old metal that couldn't be found on any other ship in the Fleet.

O'Neil inhaled deeply, surprised at the memories it evoked in him. Just for a moment, he felt like he was a Viper pilot aboard _Atlantia_ again. The two Battlestars were of the same class, with the same internal layout.

"Commander on the deck!" a marine sergeant called, snapping off a salute.

O'Neil returned the salute. "I'm here to see the Admiral."

"Of course, sir. I'll escort you to the CIC."

O'Neil smiled and shook his head. "At ease, Sergeant. I know the way."

_Pegasus_ was a world away from _Endurance_ as he strode along the ships' corridors; the walls were freshly painted, the lights all running perfectly, the crew dressed in clean and neat uniforms making way for him as he went.

It was a long walk from the landing bays to the CIC. Still, a couple of minutes later he was standing outside the ship's nerve centre. The marines on guard there moved aside to let him pass.

Like the rest of the ship, _Pegasus'_ CIC was very new, very modern and very efficient. The computers were all the latest models, their displays sleek and compact.

And in the centre of it all was Cain, currently on the phone to the chief engineer, by the sound of it. She caught his eye as he approached and nodded a greeting. "Get me a fuel consumption report as soon as you can," she ordered, then laid the phone down and turned her attention to O'Neil. "Commander O'Neil. Welcome to the _Pegasus_."

He shook her hand. "It's a pleasure, sir. Quite a ship you have here." Always nice to see how the other half live, he didn't add. "You wanted to talk to me?"

The older woman nodded. "Please, join me in my Ready Room."

Cain's quarters were, he guessed, very much representative of her personality. They were very clean, tidy and well ordered. But that didn't mean much in itself – everyone who passed through Officer Training learned to be fastidious about order. What was more intriguing to him was the collection of personal objects that Cain had chosen to place there. Each of them was no doubt significant to her in some way, and the overriding theme here was one of war. Swords, knives, antique pistols and even a couple of submachine guns decorated the room.

On impulse, O'Neil walked over to the far side of the room to examine a glass display case containing several ancient revolvers.

"Something caught your eye?" she asked, moving over to her desk to collect some papers.

"There's a Hansel .455 calibre in here," he replied. "They only made about two hundred of these things."

"Two hundred and four, to be exact," she said. "You know your guns, Mr O'Neil."

He turned around to look at her. "My old man was a collector. He would have killed to get his hands on what's in that cabinet."

Cain smiled; an unusual gesture in one normally so stern and composed. "I like to keep them here. They remind me of where we came from." But as quickly as it had come, the smile disappeared. "Your father - did he die in the attacks?" she asked suddenly.

O'Neil was taken aback by the question. What a strange thing to ask, he thought. "No," he finally said. "Heart attack, six years ago. It was quick."

Cain nodded thoughtfully, her eyes focussed on something he couldn't see. "Both my parents died during the First Cylon War. The last day. They were going to kill me too, but then the Armistice was signed and they left – just like that. It was like a switch had been flicked inside their heads." She blinked, and returned to herself. "And now here I am."

"Here you are," he confirmed.

She reached into her desk and produced a bottle of whisky. "Drink?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"Good," she said. "I don't trust a man who doesn't drink. Makes me wonder what he's hiding."

"It seems to be a habit of mine lately," O'Neil said. He'd been hitting the drink hard as a combination of pain, fatigue and the pressure of trying to keep his crew alive had weighed down on him.

She poured him a glass and handed it over. He took a sip and nodded appreciatively. "It's good."

"Eighteen years old. Enjoy it. It might be the last bottle in the universe."

Well, that sure put things into perspective, he thought. He took another drink, then laid his glass down on the conference table. "So what can I do for you, Admiral? I assume you didn't invite me here to be your drinking buddy."

"Have a seat," she said. He did as suggested, and she moved over to join him, with several pieces of paper in her hand. "Tell me, what's the status of _Endurance_? When will she be combat ready?"

"She's coming together. We're working to bring weapons and FTL back online. At a guess, I'd say she'll be ready within a couple of days."

The Admiral nodded. "Good. Because we'll need her."

"For what?"

Cain laid the sheets of paper on the table, and O'Neil pulled them closer to examine them. They were photographs, taken from the gun cameras of a Raptor or Viper, by the looks of things. They showed several Cylon Baseships orbiting a planet that he recognised vaguely as Virgon.

"These recon pictures were taken about six hours ago," Cain said. "By our estimates, the Cylons have stationed six Baseships in orbit around Virgon, forming an orbital defence network. In this configuration, they can cover around ninety percent of the planet's surface."

"So what are you suggesting?"

Cain looked at him hard. "We attack. _Endurance_ jumps in alone and engages the first Baseship with her main armament, which will draw the others in to assist. Then once they're committed, _Pegasus_ will jump in and launch an all-out nuclear strike against the Baseships, followed by a full Viper assault to mop up whatever's left. With any luck, we'll have taken out all six Baseships in a matter of minutes."

O'Neil leaned back in his chair, replaying everything he'd just heard. Suddenly it all made sense – the unexplained Raptor jumps, the repair team's preoccupation with weapons over all else. They didn't care about making the ship safe, because they didn't expect her to survive. She was a weapon's platform, and nothing more.

"You want to use _Endurance_ as cannon fodder," he said after a few moments.

"_Endurance_ is the bait. _Pegasus_ is the trap," Cain reminded him. "You'd only have to hold out long enough to draw them in. We'd be there to cover your backs."

"With all due respect, sir, we both know that's bullshit." There was a time for following protocol, and a time to speak your mind. This moment belonged firmly in the latter category. "This would be a one-way ticket. That's why you're loading _Endurance_ up with missiles – you want her throwing out as much firepower as possible before she bites the dust."

Cain raised her glass to her lips – a slow and deliberate gesture – and took a drink. She was stalling for time while she weighed up her response. "Every war requires sacrifices, Mr O'Neil. We have a chance to strike a real blow against the Cylons – one they'll never forget."

"Even if it means leaving _Pegasus_ alone?"

She gave him a hard look. "You know what it means to wear those bars on your shoulder?" she asked. "What it really means to be a ship Commander? It's not about thinking fast under pressure. Anyone can do that. It's about making the hard decisions; the decisions nobody else is prepared to face up to. We're at war, son. And fighting a war means making sacrifices. If you can't handle that, you've got no place calling yourself a Commander."

"I'm not afraid to go into battle, sir."

"Then why are you questioning me?"

"Because I'm not prepared to throw away hundreds of lives in a futile mission. Don't you get it? We're not here to protect the Colonies any more. We _are_ the Colonies now. _Pegasus_ and _Endurance_ are all we've got. The Cylons can afford to lose a dozen Baseships better than we can afford to lose one battered old Dreadnought." He sighed. "Even if we win every battle we fight, we can't change the course of this war."

"That's not the attitude I expected from a man who took on three Baseships alone," she remarked scornfully.

O'Neil took another drink. "I went into that battle expecting to die, expecting to make my last stand. Now I realise we have a chance."

"A chance to do what?"

"To start over," he said. "To look for other survivors and gather together what's left of humanity. I understand why you want to strike back at them. Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to kill every last frakking Cylon in the galaxy, but we can't do that now. We're in this for the survival of our species, not just to win a battle or two before we die out."

Cain looked at him for a long moment, as if his words had struck a chord in her. Then she raised her glass in a toast. "Bravo, Mr O'Neil. You really should have thought about getting to politics. But this isn't a democracy," she said bluntly. "We still have a chain of command, and I'm at the top of it. You have your orders. Now, are you going to follow them, or am I going to have to find someone who will?"

O'Neil stared at her. She was threatening to remove him as Commander. He couldn't believe this. "I've never disobeyed an order in my life, _sir_." He drained his drink, laid it down on the table and stood up. He knew he wasn't going to get anywhere with her. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my ship."


	14. The razor's edge

Chapter 14 - The razor's edge

Breathing hard, O'Neil circled the heavy punch bag and laid into it with a flurry of lefts and rights. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat and his dark hair was plastered to his head. The impacts jarred his arms, the torn flesh of his shoulder wound protesting the movements, but still he kept on with grim determination.

He was seething with anger as Cain's scornful words echoed in his ears.

_We're at war, son. And fighting a war means making sacrifices. If you can't handle that, you've got no place calling yourself a Commander._

He gritted his teeth as his fists slammed into the padded leather bag again and again. The heavy bag lurched and swayed with the impacts.

_I've never disobeyed an order in my life, sir._

His heart was pounding and his breath coming in gasps as he circled the bag, muscles burning and legs heavy. Still the anger burned inside him, unquenched by his punishing workout.

_More missiles streaked in from both sides of Endeavour, hitting the old ship again and again. Her hull was thick and as heavily armoured as any Colonial vessel had ever been, but even she couldn't withstand this pummelling for long. Plumes of fire blossomed from the ruptured hull, ejecting smoke and debris out into space. _

_Her main armament flashed one more time, the shells tearing into the nearest Baseship, before the fires reached her magazines and she exploded. A gigantic fireball erupted from the forward section, rapidly blasting apart the hull as it expanded to consume the entire ship._

His knuckles ached from the punishment, blood seeping from the torn flesh to soak the tape and bandages around his hands, but he ignored it. He was like a man possessed, laying into the bag again and again.

_His voice was ragged when he spoke again. "Are you ready for this?" _

_Samantha swallowed and nodded. _

_O'Neil turned and retreated to the inner door, reached up and pressed the Close switch. Samantha's eyes were on him the whole time as the hydraulic system worked. _

"_I'll see you again," she said, as the door locked in place. _

_O'Neil reached for the outer door lever, closed his eyes and pulled it. When he opened them again, the airlock was empty. She was gone. _

With an exhausted sigh, he landed one final blow before falling to his knees, struggling to draw breath.

"Don't you think you've done enough for one day?" a voice asked.

O'Neil looked up to see Starke standing at the entrance to exercise room. Her deep blue eyes shone with concern.

"Why do you care?" he asked, barely managing to say the words.

She looked at him hard. "Because you're our commander. I don't want to see you kill yourself."

"No such luck." He pulled himself to his feet with some difficulty. His heart rate was returning to normal. "I'm not ready to check out yet."

She smiled faintly. "Glad to hear it." She walked forward. "Come on, let's get out of here. You want a drink? I'm buying."

Despite himself, he managed a smile. "Who can refuse an offer like that?"

After showering and cleaning up a little, he found himself seated in Starke's cabin. Being so undermanned, _Endurance_ didn't lack for crew berthing space, and she had taken over a decent sized cabin that was appropriate for her rank.

She handed him a glass of clear liquid. Catching his questioning expression, she said, "Moonshine. There's a real market aboard this ship. I'll assume you won't give me an official reprimand for buying some."

He grinned. "You're safe for now." His smile quickly vanished when he took a sip of the stuff. It was like liquid fire burning its way down his throat. "Smooth," he managed to rasp.

Starke smiled in amusement. "Takes some getting used to, but it does the job." She sat down beside him at the table and took a drink herself, though it was several seconds before she spoke again. "So what's up with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on. I haven't known you too long, but it's obvious something's on your mind. So what is it?"

O'Neil took a drink, a long slow one, before replying. "Cain. She wants to take us into battle, use _Endurance_ as bait to lure out half a dozen Baseships."

"You think it'll work?"

"What I think is irrelevant. She made that abundantly clear," he shot back, before taking another drink. "But for what it's worth, no, I don't think it'll work. I think it'll get us all killed, and we'll lose one if not both of our ships. And you want to know what scares me the most? I don't think she cares."

Starke frowned. "She's always had a reputation as a hard-ass."

"It's more than that. She's got this… anger inside her. It's eating her up." He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe we're all losing it. Can't say I'd blame anyone after everything we've been through."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Me? I'm a soldier. I follow orders." He raised glass to take another drink, but winced in pain and laid it down. Pain radiated outward from his hand.

"You all right?"

He nodded slowly. "An old injury. I broke my hand when I used to be a fighter. Still gives me trouble every once in a while."

"Is that why you retired?"

O'Neil exhaled. She'd asked him about that once before, and he figured she deserved an answer. "No. There was another reason."

*****

_Caprica City_

_Eleven Years Earlier_

_Taking a deep breath, O'Neil knocked on the locker room door. It was a few seconds before a voice answered. _

_"Yeah!" _

_He opened the door and walked inside. _

_The locker room was old, like the rest of the building. It smelled of sweat and steam and old leather. And sitting on a bench in the middle of the room was his opponent. _

_The man was a mess, one eye swollen completely shut, face covered in cuts and bruises, hands still taped up. He looked up at O'Neil, and nodded in greeting. _

_"Hey, kid," he said. "I figured you'd come in here before it was all over." _

_"You know why I'm here?" O'Neil asked, surprised. _

_He nodded. "You gave me a hell of a fight, kid. That's the best gods damn beating I've taken in years."_

_"But you wouldn't go down," O'Neil said, an edge of anger in his voice. _

_The old fighter managed a wry smile. "No, I wouldn't." _

_"Why?" he asked, as frustrated as he was baffled. "This wasn't a title fight - it didn't mean anything. You're not even close to being a contender now. So what was the point? Why fight so hard when there was nothing to gain?" _

_At this, the man rose to his feet. Old, beaten and bruised he might have been, but he was still a formidable figure. "If you have to ask that question, you've got no place calling yourself a fighter," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. "We don't do this for pay days or title shots. We fight because that's what we're born to do, because no matter what happens out there in the world, there's still honour to be found in that ring. Maybe one day you'll understand that." _

_O'Neil backed off a pace, such was his shock at the man's words. But more intimidating than that was the look in his eyes - that hunger, that fierce burning passion for what he did. It was something he'd never experienced before. _

_Without saying another word, he turned and walked out. _

_*****_

"That was it for me. I knew right there and then, he had something I'd never have. I never could have taken the beating he went through, I never could have kept getting up, knowing I was going get hurt again and again. He was right – I had no business calling myself a fighter." O'Neil shrugged and took another drink. "But Cain… She questioned whether I had what it took to be a commander. She asked whether I was ready to make the hard decisions. Maybe she was right."

Starke leaned forward, her eyes fixed on him. "Rick, you've got no reason to doubt yourself. We're alive now only because of you. So stop kicking yourself in the ass."

He looked at her and managed a smile. "You sound like my old man."

She held her glass up in a toast. "He must have been a great guy."

"He was."

*****

The next couple of days passed more or less without incident as the two ships moved further from Colonial space at sub-light. No further Cylon action was encountered, but the mood amongst the two crews remained wary. With _Pegasus'_ Vipers continuing to provide Combat Air Patrols, _Endurance_ was brought patiently back up to combat readiness.

Her electronic warfare systems were brought back online, and in some cases upgraded with newer components from the Battlestar. Her missile batteries were replenished, and her main guns repaired as well as could be managed. In all, six of her fifty-two heavy batteries had been damaged beyond repair, as well as about thirty secondary gun turrets. Still, all told she had survived her previous battles with little permanent damage, and the addition of a full compliment of Havoc missiles had greatly boosted her combat potential.

O'Neil heard little further from Cain during this time. She seemed content to leave him and his crew to their own devices, though he didn't doubt that the repair teams from _Pegasus_ reported directly back to her. In particular, he suspected Kendra Shaw of spying on him – the young woman always seemed to be lurking around the CIC, always within earshot when he was talking to Munro or some other senior officer.

Thus, he was forced to come up with some novel ways to avoid her.

"Been a while since I've been down here," he remarked, staring at the rows of heavy calibre shells laid about before him, each of them weighing nearly three tonnes each. It was impossible for such weapons to be manhandled into the guns, so automated hoists were used instead.

The magazine room was about a hundred feet long, and there were fourteen such compartments aboard the Dreadnought. It had been a while since he had inspected one, and he found the comparative silence to be quite refreshing after the hustle and bustle in the CIC.

"So what's going on between you and Cain?" Munro asked as they walked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "She's gone quiet on me, which isn't exactly unwelcome. But it doesn't sit well with me."

Naturally he had briefed Munro on Cain's proposed attack plan. The younger man had greeted it in much the way O'Neil had anticipated, with liberal use of the term 'frakking madness'. Still, such was the authority and intimidation factor that went along with the Admiral that he hadn't openly suggested doing anything except obeying her orders.

"I'm glad I wasn't in the room when you two were butting heads," Munro said with a wry grin.

"You should be," O'Neil confirmed. He sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. There's something about her that's been bothering me."

"What, exactly?"

"Well, when I explained to her what happened with Samantha, and that Cylons can look and act human now, it didn't faze her. I didn't notice it at the time, but I realise it now. She wasn't even a little surprised, which means she already knew the truth."

Munro frowned. "So why didn't she say anything?"

O'Neil turned to look at him. "I don't know, but like I said, it doesn't sit well with me."

At that moment, they were interrupted by the blare of the ship's intercom. "Commander O'Neil, please report to the CIC right away. I repeat, Commander O'Neil to the CIC."

Munro raised an eyebrow. "Is it just me, or does that have a bad ring to it?"

"It's not just you."

After a fast jog up from the forward magazine, O'Neil and Munro emerged into the CIC sweating and slightly out of breath. "Commander on the deck," O'Neil announced. "Give me a report."

At this, Jonas Drake, the Captain of _Endurance's_ Marine contingent, moved forward to talk to him. "Sir, a party of Marines from _Pegasus_ came aboard with a orders to remove the prisoner from the brig. The orders came from Admiral Cain herself."

O'Neil frowned in confusion. "Piran? Why?"

The Lieutenant who had led the failed mutiny had been hauled off to the brig at O'Neil's orders. He hadn't yet decided what to do with Piran, but it appeared that Cain had taken that decision out of his hands.

"I don't know, sir," Drake admitted. "But they had orders to transfer him to _Pegasus_."

"Where is he now?"

The older man glanced away. "He left on a Raptor about ten minutes ago."

*****

Pale and trembling, Piran stared down the launch tube at the squad of armed Marines facing him. Beside them stood Admiral Cain, her back straight and her face grim as she looked at him.

"Lieutenant Piran, you have been tried and found guilty of inciting muntiny in time of war," she said, her tone cold and official.

"This is insane!" he protested. "I haven't even had a court-martial!"

"You were tried _in abstentia_," Cain said. "In any case, the evidence against you is overwhelming. There could be no other verdict. The sentence is death by firing squad, to be carried out immediately. Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?"

Piran licked his dry lips, feeling the heartbeat pounding in his ears. Fear raced through his veins.

"P-please, don't do this," he heard himself say, knowing the futility of his words yet compelled to say them anyway. "I don't want to die here."

Cain remained unmoved by his pleas. "Marines, ready arms!"

As one, the Marines raised their rifles. Piran flinched.

"Aim!"

Piran closed his eyes, unwilling to face what was coming. He inhaled one last time, tasting the distinctive smell of a Battlestar. A lot of people had died aboard this ship. And today, one more was going to be added to that grim tally.

"Fire!"

*****

"I don't care about operational procedures, Colonel!" O'Neil ground out, clutching the phone tight. "You took one of my men _without_ my authorisation. I want to speak to Admiral Cain right now."

"I'm sorry, sir. But the Admiral is busy," Colonel Fisk replied, his tone bland and official. "You'll have to try again later."

"Acknowledged. _Endurance_ Actual, out." O'Neil slammed the phone down in its cradle. "Frak this. Lieutenant Drake!"

Drake appeared within moments. "Yes, sir!"

"Get a squad of Marines together. Make sure they're armed."

"You planning something?" Munro asked.

"You have the conn, Danny. I'm going to pay our friends on _Pegasus_ a little visit."

The younger man eyed him dubiously. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Probably not, but I'm doing it anyway."

*****

The Raptor ride over to _Pegasus_ lasted less than five minutes. O'Neil touched down on the lower Starboard landing bay, trying to ignore the odd feeling that he was coming in upside down. The newer _Mercury_ class Battlestars, with their double-stacked landing bays, had been known to disturb more than a few cadets on their first landing.

As soon as the automated tug unit had hauled him into the hanger, O'Neil disembarked, flanked by Drake and four other Marines. Nobody tried to stop them as they marched through the Battlestar's corridors to the ship's brig.

Only outside the secure facility did they encounter resistance. Two armed Marines stood there, looking nervous as O'Neil and his group approached.

"Sir, this is a restricted area," one of them, a Sergeant, explained.

"Stand aside, Sergeant," O'Neil ordered. "We're going in there."

The man raised his chin. "I'm sorry, sir. But the Admiral's orders stand. Nobody gets into this brig without authorisation."

O'Neil took a step forward. If push came to shove, he intended to shove. But he was interrupted when another voice spoke up; one he knew all too well.

"Problems, Commander?"

O'Neil spun around to face Cain. "I came to find out what happened to the crewman you kidnapped."

"That's a little over-dramatic," she cut in. "And I don't much appreciate you bringing armed Marines aboard my ship."

"I tried to resolve this over the radio, but Fisk was stonewalling me. If direct action is what it takes to resolve this, so be it."

Cain's glance swept over the Marines standing with O'Neil. "We'll discuss this in my Ready Room. Come with me."

*****

"You did what?" O'Neil said incredulously.

He had listened with a mixture of amazement and disbelief as Cain had calmly related Piran's trial and summary execution. There had been no emotion in her voice, no regret, nothing. It was all business to her.

"He incited a mutiny in time of war," Cain replied. "There was only one punishment for men like that."

In some ways, he agreed with her. Piran had remained a threat, however remote, but O'Neil had been reluctant to simply execute him out of hand. He was still a human being, and they were in short supply these days.

Seeing his dubious look, Cain added, "You don't approve? Well, too bad, because I don't need your approval. We're hanging on by our fingernails here. The crews of both our ships have lost just about everything they ever cared about. It's only a matter of time before they forget what they're fighting for, or why they should even listen to us. And if that happens, then it's over. We'll have anarchy. This is how we maintain order."

"And how many more people are we going to kill?" he asked bluntly.

Her reply was equally blunt. "As many as we have to." She turned away and walked over to one of the display cases, examining the antique firearms within. "I'm trying to be patient here, Commander, because you've served us well so far, and because I remember the man you used to be. But my patience will only last so long. I need people around me who will obey orders, and who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty. Because make no mistake, that's the only way we're going to get through this."

"Then how about being straight with me," he said.

At this, the Admiral turned around to face him. "What are you talking about?"

"Your Marines were pretty determined not to let us into that brig. I know Piran wasn't in there, because you already executed him. So what is it you're keeping in there?"

The older woman was silent for some time, as if weighing up a choice in her head. Finally she seemed to reach a decision. "All right. You want to know so badly? I'll show you."


	15. A new kind of war

Chapter 15 - A new kind of war

Accompanied by Cain, O'Neil returned to the brig, and this time the Marines on guard there were happy to move aside for him. But before he could open the door, the Admiral moved forward to stand in front of him.

"You're going to see things in there - things that might not sit well with you," she warned him. "But remember why we're here. Remember what we're fighting for."

O'Neil looked at her in surprise, not sure what to think. But sensing that she wouldn't move until he acknowledged her, he nodded.

With that, the door was unlocked and pulled open. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.

_Pegasus_ brig was much like that on _Endurance_, with a secure plexiglass chamber in the centre of the room where prisoners could be held. There was another Marine on guard in a small observation room adjacent to the holding cell. He straightened up and saluted when the two senior officers entered. It was all very clean, very sterile and sanitised. But when he saw what was lying in one corner of the cell, he stopped.

It was a woman, though the only reason he knew that was the matted dark blonde hair falling in front of her face. Her body was hidden beneath a shapeless grey shirt that left her long legs exposed. And on every part of her that he could see there were bruises; all up and down her legs, especially her thighs. Her face was bruised and cut and swollen, lifeless eyes staring across the room but seeing nothing.

O'Neil stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

"What is this?" he breathed.

"A few days before we found you, we were boarded by Cylon Centurions. Someone disabled our security grid and allowed them to get aboard. We lost thirty eight men in that attack," Cain said, the anger in her voice plain to hear. "I was so reluctant to believe it at first, but in the end there was no denying it. It's a Cylon, and it fooled us all. Especially me." The older woman turned to look at him. "This is a different kind of war, Mr O'Neil. And it calls for different methods."

Different methods, he thought. Yes, this was very different indeed. It didn't take a genius to see why her legs were so heavily bruised. How could Cain, a woman, allow something like this?

"I want to talk to her," he said, not taking his eyes off the woman in the cell.

"You won't get anything out of it," Cain said. "It doesn't talk."

He turned to look at her, eyes blazing. "Open the door."

Cain met his gaze without flinching, then nodded at the Marine nearby. The man moved forward, swiped a security access card through a reader at the door to unlock it. This done, he pulled the door open and stood back, though he kept his rifle at the ready.

O'Neil moved into the doorway, still staring at her. The cell reeked of blood, sweat, vomit, excrement and fear. Human smells. How was this possible? Weren't Cylons machines?

"Gods damn it," he said under his breath.

His eyes saw a woman who had been beaten and abused, even as the rational part of his brain tried to convince him that she was just a machine in human form, that she didn't feel pain or fear. Was it true? Both parts of him vied for dominance.

He took a step forward, and only now did she react, pulling herself up despite her hands being cuffed behind her back. She pressed herself into the corner, eyes wide with fear, breath coming faster through dry bloodied lips.

"It's all right," he said, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She was squeezed into the corner, knees drawn up to her chest, panting like a trapped rabbit. Her eyes flicked to Cain and the Marine, and he saw fear in them. Still she said nothing.

"Could you give us a little privacy?" he asked.

"It's for your own protection, sir," the Marine said, keeping his rifle trained on the prisoner.

"Protection from what?" He looked down at her. Huddled in a corner, bruised and bloodied, her hands bound. What possible threat could she be?

To his surprise, Cain spoke up. "It's all right, Corporal. Close him in." She looked at O'Neil. "When you've had enough, buzz the intercom. I'll be in my Ready Room when you're finished."

With that, she turned and strode out, looking relieved to be out of there. The Corporal moved towards the door, closed it and locked it in place. After levelling one last disdainful look at the woman in the cell, he moved away and returned to his security room.

O'Neil held his hands up to show that he was unarmed, then slowly lowered himself onto the bed. "It's all right. I'm not going to move. I'm just going to sit here. Okay?"

She said nothing. Didn't move, didn't react. The only sound he could hear was her sharp intake of breath.

"What's your name?"

Nothing.

"My name's O'Neil. Rick O'Neil." He looked down at the floor. "I was born on Caprica, joined the Fleet when I was twenty-five. And six days ago, just about everyone I ever knew and cared about was killed by the Cylons." Only then did he turn his eyes on her again. "Why did you do this to us? Billions of our people are dead, and for what? There was no sense in it."

The woman didn't reply.

He looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. "You know, I look at you and I don't know whether I'm seeing a person or a machine. You bleed, you bruise. Do you even feel those wounds? Do you feel pain, fear… regret?"

Still she remained silent.

"I'm sorry... for what's happened to you," he said at last. "I don't know if that means anything. I know it can't take back what they did, but I wanted you to know anyway." He sighed and rose to his feet. "I'll see you around."

And then, just like that, she spoke.

"Why?"

It came out as a whisper, scarcely audible. But it was her voice. She was communicating with him.

He looked at her. "What?"

"Why did you say that?" Her voice was stronger now, a little louder, as if she was remembering how to use it. "Why did you apologise?"

"I don't know what you are. I don't know if you're a machine, or a person or something else. But I know you're alive, and no living thing deserves this."

As she sat there, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Just once, someone had come into this room to talk to her, and they weren't here to torture or abuse her. "I felt it – the pain," she whispered. "Every time they came in here, and... did things to me. I felt it."

Surely this couldn't just be an act. Surely it wasn't just programming and software that was making her act like this.

She turned her head slowly to look at him. "Can you help me? Can you get me out of here, O'Neil?"

He shook his head. There was no point in lying to her. "No."

"I wouldn't have believed you if you'd said yes," she said. "I'm going to die here. I know it."

"That's not up to me." He sighed and looked away for a moment. "There's something I need to know. Did you always know what you were?"

"Why do you ask?"

He swallowed. "Because someone I trusted was a Cylon. She tried to kill me. She said she didn't know what she was – she only knew the truth when her programming took over."

Gina looked at him searchingly. "What did you do to her?"

O'Neil met her gaze. "It was quick."

That seemed to satisfy her. Samantha's death had been quick, unlike her own - maybe that gave her some kind of comfort. "Some of us were created that way, not knowing our true purpose."

"Why?"

"It is God's plan."

He sat back down on the bed and ran his hands through his hair. "You're telling me the Cylons have their own religion now? Machines worshipping a god?"

Her face hardened with anger. "He is the God of all things, Cylon and human. He sees all and he knows all, and He will punish the wicked when their time comes," she said, raising her voice. No doubt she was aware that everything they said was being recorded.

"And how will you answer to Him when _your_ time comes?" O'Neil asked.

Gina raised her chin. "I was doing His work."

"And His work involves murdering twenty billion innocent people?" he said, feeling the anger building within him. "Women? Children? Is that the kind of God you pray to?"

"And do your gods permit what happens in this room?" she shot back.

"This has nothing to do with your god or mine. We're at war for the survival of our species. You know we'll do everything we can to survive."

"Survive." She laughed then, but it was a bitter, sardonic laugh. "Survival is a privilege, not a right. You have to earn it."

He sighed. "She said she would see me again. Before I closed the airlock. She told me she'd see me again."

"She meant something to you, didn't she?" Gina asked. He didn't say anything - he didn't have to. His eyes told the story. "You were close. And then you found out she was a machine. It's not easy to just turn those feelings off, is it?"

"No," he said quietly.

"No," she echoed.

He rose from the bed and moved over to kneel down next to her, staring into her eyes. "What did she mean when she said she'd see me again? Please, tell me. Will I see her?"

"If it's God's plan, if you deserve to survive that long, maybe you will. Do you deserve to survive, O'Neil?"

O'Neil backed off, rose to his feet and retreated to the door. Without taking his eyes off her, he buzzed the intercom and the Marine emerged from his security room.

"I'm done here," O'Neil said.

Before he left, the prisoner spoke up one more time. "God watches us all. He sees everything we do. Remember that."

A moment later, the door slid open O'Neil left the room, glad to be out of there. He unbuttoned his tunic, finding it hard to breathe.

"Almost makes you believe it's human, huh sir?" the Marine sneered as he locked the door again. "Really fraks with your head."

Suddenly O'Neil whirled on him, grabbed him by his body armour and slammed him into the armoured bulkhead behind. "Keep your opinions to yourself," he said through clenched teeth. "You got that?"

The younger man stared at him, for a moment too shocked to speak.

"You got that?" O'Neil repeated.

"Y-yes, sir," he stammered.

Without saying anything more, O'Neil released him and stalked out of the room.


	16. Drastic measures

Hi everyone!

This story is approaching its finale – just a few chapters left now. I hope you're all still enjoying it. I wish there was a way for me to reply directly to any questions or comments, but I guess I'll have to settle for doing it this way.

Many thanks for all the feedback, and I guess I'll see you at the end.

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Chapter 16 - Drastic measures

BATTLESTAR PEGASUS

ADMIRAL'S QUARTERS

19:37 HOURS

Cain was seated behind her expansive desk, her tunic slung over the back of her chair, when the knock came at the door.

"Come!"

The door opened to reveal Lieutenant Shaw. "You asked to see me, sir?"

"Come in, Lieutenant," Cain said, then gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. "Take a seat."

As Shaw sat down, Cain poured a whisky and slid it over. There was no need to ask if she wanted one - if it was offered, she would drink it. Shaw was a good officer, a reliable officer.

"Tell me, what's become of Commander O'Neil?" she asked.

"He's back on _Endurance_, sir," Shaw replied, taking a drink. The whisky was hard for her tastes, but she was learning to enjoy it.

"How did he seem?"

"Angry," the young woman admitted. "From what I heard, he assaulted one of the Marines in the brig. Nothing serious, but he roughed him up a little."

Cain looked at her across the table. "You've spent a lot of time around him lately. What's your assessment of O'Neil as a Commander? Be honest."

Shaw lifted the glass to her lips and took another drink. "I'd say he's pretty good," she admitted. "He's decisive and level headed, and he doesn't put up with any crap from people. He cares a lot about his ship and his crew.

"I expected as much." Cain sighed and slid a paper folder across the table. "Read this. It's O'Neil's jacket."

Shaw picked up the document and quickly read over it. Her eyes grew wider as she reached the events of six months earlier. "I didn't know."

"He was responsible for another pilot's death - got himself court-martialled and demoted to Lieutenant. Not quite the man we thought he was." The older woman took a drink herself. "You remember what I said to you after the attack? If you want to survive in this war, you have to be a razor. You have to do things that other people might consider... questionable, because that's what it means to survive." Cain leaned back in her chair and rubbed her neck, which was stiff and sore after the day's events. "O'Neil's lost his edge. It's only a matter of time before he turns against us. He's become a liability, and that's something we can't afford now."

Shaw raised her chin a little. She understood exactly what Cain meant. "What are your orders, sir?"

"Take two squads of Marines over there, put him under arrest and assume command until further orders. If he resists, you're authorised to use deadly force."

Shaw leaned forward, looking at her commanding officer intently. "Are you sure you want to do this, sir?"

Cain raised her glass and drained it. "It's what has to be done."

*****

DREADNOUGHT ENDURANCE

COMMANDER'S QUARTERS

19:48 HOURS

"My gods," Munro breathed, having listened to O'Neil relate his experience with the prisoner aboard _Pegasus_. "I can't believe Cain's got a Cylon prisoner aboard."

O'Neil shook his head and gulped down his glass of whisky - his third so far. "I've seen interrogations before, but this was a whole new level. This was torture for its own sake, plain and simple."

Munro looked at him. "I hate to say this, but can you really blame her? I mean, it's a Cylon we're talking about here. It's not a human being."

O'Neil's look was enough to silence further thoughts along those lines. "Whatever the frak she was, she was alive. She could feel pain and fear and humiliation, and she'd seen enough of all three to last a lifetime." He poured himself another drink and sighed with deep weariness. "What's happening to us? It's like we're forgetting what we are."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you get it, Danny? That Cylon was telling the truth - survival isn't a right. You have to earn it, you have to be worthy of it. Are we worthy of it?"

Munro looked down for a moment before speaking again. "There's something else. I hate to bring this up now, but..."

"I'm listening."

"Well, I got talking with one of the engineers working in the CIC. A couple of days before we bumped into them, _Pegasus_ went into battle against the Cylons. They were heavily outnumbered, but Cain ordered a full attack. When the XO refused to relay her order, Cain took his side arm and shot him dead right in the middle of CIC." He sipped his drink. "At least, that's what he claims happened. Sometimes these kinds of rumours develop a life of their own."

O'Neil looked at him. "I believe them. Cain's frakking lost it, Danny. She's operating on her own authority now. Frak knows what she's going to do next."

Before Munro could reply, the intercom buzzed. O'Neil leaned over and pressed it. "Yeah?"

"Sir, this is Greene. We've got a Raptor inbound from _Pegasus_."

He frowned. "So? What's so unusual about that?"

"This one's got a Viper escort, sir."

O'Neil glanced over at his XO. The look on Munro's face echoed his own thoughts - something big was about to happen, and it wasn't going to be good.

"I'm on my way."

*****

ENDURANCE

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE

19:52 HOURS

"Situation report," O'Neil said, striding into the CIC with Munro only a few paces behind.

"One Raptor and two Vipers on intercept course," Greene reported. "Range, ten thousand metres and closing."

"Hail them."

The older man shook his head. "We tried. No response."

"This doesn't look good," Munro said under his breath.

O'Neil chewed his lip. "Get _Pegasus_ on the horn."

A few moments later, Greene had raised them. "You're on, sir."

O'Neil grabbed the phone by the command console. "This is _Endurance_ Actual. Please state the intention of the inbound Raptor."

A moment later, Cain's voice sounded through the speakers. "This is _Pegasus _Actual. The inbound Raptor contains your replacement, along with a full squad of Marines. Stand by to receive them."

"Replacement?"

"I'm relieving you of command, Mr O'Neil. You will surrender your command access codes to Lieutenant Shaw as soon as she comes aboard, and return to _Pegasus_ immediately for further orders."

Her words descended on the CIC like a pall. All conversation stopped, and all eyes turned to O'Neil, who stood dumbfounded beside the command console.

He couldn't believe it. Cain was relieving him of command?

His fingers tightened on the phone. "I'm sorry, but I don't recognise your authority to relieve me, Admiral. Advise your Raptor to return to _Pegasus_."

"You don't recognise my authority?" There was a definite edge of anger in her voice now. "Mr O'Neil, I'm a senior officer in time of war. The chain of command gives me all the authority I need."

"Range, seven thousand metres," Greene reported.

"This isn't about the chain of command," O'Neil shot back. "This is about your own personal vendetta; about you eliminating anyone who's a threat to you. That's why you executed your own XO, that's why you're torturing that woman in your brig, and that's why you're trying to have me removed. What are you more afraid of, Admiral - that I'm wrong and I'm not fit to command this ship, or that I'm right and you're not fit to command yours?"

For several seconds, all he could hear was static on the line. "You're making the biggest mistake of your life, Mr O'Neil. Stand down now, or things are going to get a whole lot worse."

Greene looked up from his DRADIS screen. "Sir, _Pegasus_ is scrambling Vipers. She's moving into a strike position."

"Sound battle stations," O'Neil replied.

When Greene didn't move, O'Neil turned and glared at him. "I'm not going to say this again, Mr Greene. Set Condition One throughout the ship."

"Yes, sir," he said at last.

Alarms sounded in the CIC as the ship was brought to readiness.

"All decks report Condition One throughout the ship," Munro said. "All gun batteries manned and ready."

"_Pegasus_ has launched Vipers," Greene reported. "At least three squadrons. They're closing in."

"My gods, Rick. What are we doing?" Munro asked. "_Pegasus_ is a _Mercury_ Class Battlestar. We're no match for them."

"She'll back down," O'Neil assured him. "She might be willing to kill one man, but she won't fire on a Colonial warship. She'll back down."

*****

PEGASUS

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE

19:58 HOURS

"Sir, if Endurance opens fire with her main batteries..." Fisk warned.

"She won't," Cain cut in. "O'Neil isn't insane. He knows we'd destroy him if he fired on us." She looked at the DRADIS screen for several seconds. "Spin up nuclear missiles One through Six. Target _Endurance_."

The XO paled visibly. "Sir?"

Her dark gaze rested on him. "I gave you an order, Colonel. Are you going to obey it, or am I going to have to find someone who will?"

With a trembling hand, Fisk picked up the phone next to him. "This is the XO. Spin up missiles One through Six, and open outer hatches." He glanced back at Cain. "What happens if he doesn't back down, sir?"

The Admiral raised her chin a little, keeping her back straight. "He'll back down."

*****

ENDURANCE

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE

20:02 HOURS

"Radiation warning!" Greene yelled. "They're targeting us with nuclear missiles."

O'Neil's head snapped around. So she'd decided to play her trump card. Cain was taking this to the next level.

As if on cue, Cain's voice came on the ship's speakers. "Mr O'Neil, be advised, you will stand down now or face severe consequences."

O'Neil grabbed the phone. "If you fire on us, we'll have no choice but to defend ourselves."

"And you'll lose," she informed him coldly. "You're outnumbered and outgunned. Don't be a fool."

"I've had worse odds," he said. "You won't fire on us."

"Are you willing to bet your life on that?"

Without replying, he turned to Harper at the fire control station. "Gunnery Control, prepare to fire main and secondary batteries. Target _Pegasus_ and the incoming Vipers, and arm all forward missile batteries."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Mr Greene, spool up our FTL drive."

*****

LIEUTENANT NOEL ALLISON

CALLSIGN "NARCHO"

PEGASUS RED SQUADRON

20:04 HOURS

"Frak," Narcho growled, watching as his Viper flight was lit up again by _Endurance's_ Point Defence targeting systems. He and the other six Vipers in his squadron had been targeted for the past couple of minutes as they held position about five thousand metres off the Dreadnought's port beam.

"Sir, what are we doing?" Blindside, his wingman, demanded. "They're targeting us! Let's just shoot these frakkers."

Narcho switched frequencies to the Pegasus CAG. "Sir, we're being repeatedly targeted. Again requesting permission to open fire."

*****

PEGASUS

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE

20:05 HOURS

"Negative, Red Leader," Fisk barked into the phone. "Do not fire unless fired upon."

"What's happening out there?" Cain demanded.

"Our Vipers are being targeted. They keep requesting permission to open fire. I don't know how much longer I can rein them in."

"He's trying to provoke us," the Admiral realised. "He wants to see how far we'll go. XO, prepare to fire all missiles. The release of nuclear weapons is authorised."

*****

ENDURANCE

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE

20:06 HOURS

"_Pegasus_ has missile lock," Greene reported. "Her nukes are hot."

"She's going to launch," Munro warned, his voice low and urgent. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. "I can feel it. She won't back down."

"Sir, I have a firing solution on _Pegasus_," Harper said. "If we fire first, we might cripple their missile launchers."

"Rick, we have to fire!" Munro

O'Neil stood at the command console, staring at the DRADIS screen without saying a word. Unbidden, Cain's earlier words came back to him.

"_You know what it means to wear those bars on your shoulder?" she asked. "What it really means to be a ship Commander? It's not about thinking fast under pressure. Anyone can do that. It's about making the hard decisions; the decisions nobody else is prepared to face up to. We're at war, son. And fighting a war means making sacrifices. If you can't handle that, you've got no place calling yourself a Commander."_

"Vipers closing to four thousand metres!"

"Rick! What are your orders?"

*****

PEGASUS

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE

20:07 HOURS

"Sir, missiles ready in all respects," the weapons officer reported. "I have a firing solution."

Cain said nothing.

Fisk leaned over the command console. "Sir, we're ready to fire. If we're going to do this, it has to be now."

"If _Endurance_ hits us with a main battery salvo, we'll be sitting ducks," the weapons officer warned.

"Sir, what are your orders?" Fisk asked.

Cain turned slowly to look at him, but before she could speak, a warning flashed up on the DRADIS screen.

"Sir, two Cylon Baseships just jumped into DRADIS range!"

The Admiral frowned. "What?"

"Confirmed. Two Cylon Baseships. Range, thirty-two thousand! Bearing… three five seven!"

Cain wasted no time, grabbing the phone from Fisk. "All Viper squadrons, break off _Endurance_ and form up for attack on the Baseships. Helm, bring us about – bearing three five seven. All ahead flank."

"Aye, sir!"

"Fire control, get me a targeting solution as soon as you can. And launch all reserve Vipers now!"

O'Neil would have to wait. This was more important.

_Pegasus_ swung to starboard in a wide arc, her manuevering thrusters flaring as she came about to face the new threat, gun and missile batteries now trained on the enemy ships. At the same time, her Viper squadrons peeled away from _Endurance_ and took up flanking positions on either side of their Battlestar as the outnumbered Colonial force charged headlong into battle.


	17. Parting ways

Chapter 17 - Parting ways

The CIC shook as another missile slammed into _Pegasus_ outer armour. Admiral Cain grabbed the command console to steady herself as a nearby circuit blew out.

"Report," she said tersely.

"The two Baseships are moving to bracket us," her DRADIS operator reported. "The nearest ship is launching another salvo."

"Designate target Alpha One. Redirect Green and Yellow squadrons to engage," she ordered. "Tell them to suppress enemy missile launchers."

"We won't have enough Vipers to defend ourselves," Fisk protested.

"It won't matter if we don't suppress these frakking Baseships," she shot back, glaring at him as another deep impact rumbled through the ship. "Weapons, do you have a firing solution?"

"Yes, sir."

"Launch nukes One, Two and Three. Now."

With her main and secondary batteries still hammering away at the raiders that swarmed around her, _Pegasus'_ forward missile launchers loosed a salvo of nuclear warheads that streaked across the void to the nearest Baseship.

But no sooner had they left the Battlestar's launch tubes than a dozen raiders peeled off to intercept them. Their cannon fire arced in from all sides, right across the missile's path. One warhead erupted in a gout of flame, followed by a second. A few moments later, the third missile was blasted apart before it got anywhere near its target.

"All missiles intercepted," Fisk said grimly. "There's just too many of them."

Cain gritted her teeth in frustration. She'd just wasted three perfectly good nukes. "Weapons, target Alpha Two. All forward batteries, fire!"

The Battlestar's heavy batteries flashed, loosing a full salvo at the Cylon Baseship. By chance, one raider was unlucky enough to get caught in the path of a projectile, and was instantly obliterated. But the rest continued on until they struck the Cylon capital ship, blasting gaping holes in its thinly armoured hull.

"Direct hit," the weapons control officer said. "Alpha One is venting atmosphere. I'm reading failures in their power grid."

"Well get stuck in. Do it again!" Cain snapped. There was no time for celebration now.

Outside, two full squadrons of Vipers descended on the first Baseship, triggering their missile payloads at the last moment to prevent them being intercepted, then banking sharply away to avoid the resulting debris. A dozen sheets of flame blossomed out from the hull as the warheads impacted. Their mission complete, the Vipers peeled away to engage the raiders that filled the sky. Tracer fire was everywhere.

But despite being on fire and badly damaged, neither Baseship was out of the fight. More missiles were launched from both ships, and though many were intercepted by Vipers and _Pegasus'_ own Point Defence Weapons, it was impossible to stop them all.

The Battlestar shuddered as high explosive warheads detonated against the armour. In the CIC, Cain was almost knocked off her feet by the impacts. Alarms blared at the damage control station.

"We've got fires on decks six and seven!" the damage control officer warned. "Damage control teams are on their way. If we take many more hits to the ventral hull, we'll be looking at a hull breach!"

No sooner had he said this than two more big contacts appeared on the DRADIS screen. "Two more Baseships just jumped in!" the DRADIS officer warned. "They're moving in behind us."

"We're being surrounded," Fisk realized. "We can't hold off four Baseships by ourselves. We need to get out of this one."

The CIC shook as more missiles hit them. Surrounded and outgunned, _Pegasus _was being pounded remorselessly. Her Vipers were faring little better as the Cylon's vastly superior numbers started to take their toll.

"Helm, bring us about!" Cain ordered. "New heading zero-six-zero. Nose down twenty degrees. We'll get out of this."

"Yes, sir!"

Engines flaring, _Pegasus_ swung around, trying to break free of the trap as missiles continued to pound her.

"Baseships altering course to follow us, sir," the DRADIS officer said. "We can't lose them."

Cain looked around the room, the truth dawning on her. They were surrounded and outnumbered, and they were going to lose.

Just as the Cylons were closing in to finish off the stricken Battlestar, one of them suddenly erupted in flame, its central axis disintegrating as heavy calibre shells tore through it.

"Frak me!" the DRADIS operator cried, unable to hide his amazement. "It's _Endurance_!"

Ten thousand metres away, the old Dreadnought lumbered past the crippled Basestar, now moving to engage a second target with its missile batteries.

"This is _Endurance_ Actual," O'Neil's voice crackled through _Pegasus'_ CIC. "Land your birds and spool up your FTL drive. We'll cover you."

Still trying to swallow her shock, Cain grabbed the phone. "Negative, _Endurance_. We're engaged on all sides. We can't back off now."

In the background, Cain heard a deep rumble as _Endurance_ took a missile hit. "No time for debate, _Pegasus_. Either we get out of here or we all die. Your call."

Cain stood in silence for several moments. Sensing her indecision, Fisk leaned forward across the command console. "Sir, what are your orders?" A great rolling boom echoed through the hull as the ship took another heavy hit. "Sir!"

At last Cain turned to look at him. "Land our birds. Prepare to jump the ship," she said quietly.

Fisk wasted no time. He grabbed the phone that tied him into the Viper radio net. "This is _Pegasus_. All wings, come on home. Combat landings are authorised."

Abandoning the fight that was still raging all around, _Pegasus'_ Vipers turned, hit full engine burn and made straight for their ship. Soon there were Vipers hurtling into all four landing bays, many performing manuevers that would have made their flight instructors apoplectic with rage.

"Vipers coming in on all decks," Fisk reported. "FTL drive spooled up. Jump destination, sir?"

"Emergency rendezvous one," Cain said, then picked up the phone to link her to _Endurance_. "This is _Pegasus_ Actual. We're almost ready. Stand by to jump. We'll meet at the rendezvous."

"Not this time, _Pegasus_," O'Neil replied. "Our FTL's offline. Get out of here. We'll hold them off as long as we can."

The Admiral, so rarely moved, swallowed hard to keep her composure. He'd known what he was getting into when he joined this battle, but he'd given everything to save someone who had been ready to destroy him only minutes before. "Understood, _Endurance_. For what it's worth, I'm sorry things worked out this way."

"So am I," O'Neil replied. "Good hunting, _Pegasus_. _Endurance_ Actual, out."

Cain clicked the phone off and turned to Fisk. "Where are our Vipers?"

The XO still had a phone against his ear. "That's it! They're all aboard."

Cain took a deep breath. "Jump the ship."

A moment later, the massive Battlestar disappeared in a flash of light.

*****

In _Endurance's_ CIC, O'Neil watched the Colonial vessel vanish from the DRADIS screen. "Good luck, _Pegasus_," he whispered. He'd given them the best chance he could, but he sensed trouble ahead for that ship.

His thoughts were interrupted when another boom rolled through the CIC. With the Battlestar gone, the Baseships had shifted their fire to the remaining Dreadnought.

"We're taking a pounding here," Munro said. "We need to leave."

"Radiation alarm!" Greene exclaimed. "They're launching nukes – a full salvo by the looks of it. Impact in ten seconds."

O'Neil wasn't about to waste time debating. They were done here. "Are the jump coordinates laid in?" he asked.

Munro was manning the FTL console. "Confirmed. The board is green. We're ready to jump."

He'd lied to Cain about their FTL being offline. He knew that if they rendezvoused with _Pegasus_, they were just going to find themselves in the same armed standoff they'd been in before the Cylons arrived. For better or worse, they were on their own now. Maybe one day they would be reunited with the Battlestar under more favourable circumstances, but deep down he knew it wouldn't happen.

"Impact in five seconds."

"Jump the ship."

A low hum built throughout the ship as the FTL drive discharged. O'Neil gritted his teeth, feeling like his body was being pulled apart at the seams. For a moment, his view of the CIC was obscured by a blinding white light, and then they were gone.

*****

THREE YEARS LATER

O'Neil sighed as he walked the familiar path from his quarters to the CIC. He had passed this way hundreds of times in the past three years, sometimes running with his heart pounding during an alert, sometimes walking sedately to begin another stint in the heart of the old ship.

It had been three long years since they had parted company with _Pegasus_ in those chaotic final moments. Since then they had been doing their best to keep a low profile, jumping to systems where they could scavenge enough food and fuel to keep the ship running, and avoiding the Cylons as much as possible. It hadn't always worked, but they were still alive.

Their crew complement had swelled to about four hundred and fifty during their time on the run, as they encountered the occasional ship that had been lucky enough to escape the genocide – mostly old cargo and ore haulers on deep space runs who had been well outside the core systems during the attack. Each of their crews had been added to _Endurance's_ ranks, integrated with the military command structure as well as possible. One lucky find had been a ship carrying refined tylium ore; enough to replenish their fuel reserves for years, if need be.

But the constant strain of operating without rest or relief was taking its toll on ship and crew alike. _Endurance_ had been old even at the start of the war, and three years of patrolling and fighting was taxing even her indomitable heart. Despite their best efforts, worn out and overloaded systems were starting to break down almost as fast as they could be repaired. Her FTL drive took nearly twice as long to spool up as it once had. She was old – old and tired. And so was her Commander.

He hadn't been sleeping well lately – a situation not helped by the summons to CIC so early in the morning. But it was more than that. He was tired of this ship, tired of command, tired of running and hiding and never knowing whether this day would be his last. And he sensed the rest of the crew were feeling the same way.

He missed having solid ground beneath his feet. He missed trees and grass and sky and fresh air. He missed all the things they had left behind on Caprica.

He walked into the CIC, where people were moving around with an increased urgency. Clearly something was going on. "Report," he said.

Greene looked up from his DRADIS console, appearing as tired as O'Neil felt. "We've got a Cylon Baseship at the edge of DRADIS range, but I can't get good readings. It seems to be surrounded by smaller contacts."

"Is it moving to intercept us?" O'Neil asked.

The older man shook his head. "Negative, it's just sitting there. But it must have seen us by now. Their DRADIS is much more effective than ours."

O'Neil chewed his lip for a moment. It was a risk, but in his opinion it was worthwhile. "Helm, plot an intercept course and execute. Let's take a closer look."

"Could be a trap, sir," Starke warned.

O'Neil glanced at her. "Then we'd better be careful. Mr Harper, set Condition One throughout the ship. Arm all missiles and gun batteries."

"Yes, sir."

"Helm, take us in, nice and slow."

As they closed in on their target, the distant DRADIS contact resolved itself into the shape of a Cylon Baseship, heavily damaged with three of its spires ending in broken, twisted metal. It was in a loose elliptical orbit around a rocky desert planet.

"Someone sure kicked the crap out of them," Munro remarked, looking at the image from one of the ship's external cameras. Being a warship, there were no windows or portholes on a Dreadnought as such, and navigation was conducted using DRADIS, but it was occasionally useful to be able to see what was outside visually.

"There's a lot of debris around," Greene said. "Judging by what I'm seeing, I'd say a second Baseship was completely destroyed here."

"Looks like quite a battle," O'Neil agreed. "But who hit them? And where did they go?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

O'Neil folded his arms. "Helm, hold position at ten thousand metres. Thrusters at station keeping only. Mr Harper, keep our weapons on standby. If that son of a bitch so much as twitches, open fire with everything we have."

"They won't get a shot off, sir," Harper promised.

Suddenly, at the communications console, Starke frowned. "What the hell?"

He hurried over to her. "What have you got?"

"A signal. Broadcasting from inside the Baseship."

"Put it on speakers."

She flipped a few switches, and a moment later the CIC was filled with the crackle of static, random radiation bouncing through the vacuum of space. But beneath the static, almost beyond the range of their hearing, lay a strange electronic beeping. To O'Neil and just about everyone else it sounded like random noise, an alternating series of beeps and longer tones nestling in the static background.

But there was one person in the room for whom it did have meaning.

"My gods," Munro breathed.

O'Neil turned to look at him. His face was frozen as if in shock, his eyes unfocussed as he listened to the sounds.

"Danny?"

"It's music," Munro said. "Can't you hear it?"

O'Neil frowned, looking for familiar patterns in the sounds. If it was a tune, it was one he'd never heard before.

"I know this song," the XO went on. "I've heard it before. I'm sure of it." He blinked and focussed on O'Neil. "We have to go over there."

"Go over there? Are you crazy?" O'Neil asked. "That ship's a wreck. The damn thing could come apart at any minute. Not to mention the fact that it's probably filled with some very pissed off Cylons."

Munro moved closer and lowered his voice. "Rick, we need to do this. I don't know why, but we need to go over there. I'd bet my life on it."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It's just a feeling, an instinct. But I've never felt stronger about anything in my life."

O'Neil looked at his friend in surprise. He'd never seen him act like this before. "What are you expecting to find over there, Danny?"

"Answers."

"The Baseship's orbit is deteriorating," Greene said. "I'd give it another hour or so before it burns up in the atmosphere."

Munro continued to stare at him, unblinking. "We're running out of time, Rick. This could be our last chance."

O'Neil held his gaze a moment longer, then glanced over at Greene. "What's the status of the Baseship?"

"It's taken heavy damage. Engines and weapons are offline, but there's still obviously power there somewhere. The signal seems to be coming from the central core, possibly a control room of some kind."

O'Neil ran a hand along his jaw, then nodded as if to confirm his decision with himself. "Tell Mr Drake to form a Marine boarding party, heavily armed, and meet us in the hangar bay. We're going over there." He looked over at Starke. "Lieutenant, you're in command until we get back. If you don't hear from us in an hour, your orders are to destroy the Baseship and get out of here."

"But –" the woman began to protest.

O'Neil held his hand up. "No arguments. Just do it." He turned to look at Munro. "Come on, let's get moving. We don't have much time. For your sake, I hope you're right."

"For all our sakes," Munro said.


	18. Revelations

Chapter 18 – Revelations

COLONIAL RAPTOR

EN ROUTE TO BASESHIP

07:16 HOURS

With _Endurance_ standing guard about ten thousand metres away, the single Rapter fought its way through the debris field, dodging wreckage to reach the shattered remains of the Baseship. Whatever had hit it had really gone to town on it – the outer hull was scorched and blasted open to reveal the ship's inner compartments. Several of its graceful spokes had been completely severed, leaving behind torn, twisted metal stumps.

"Frak me," one of the Marines gasped, staring wide eyed at the destruction before them. O'Neil turned to look at him, and his face turned crimson in embarrassment. "Sorry, sir. Just never been this close to one before."

The Commander grinned. "Me neither."

As they closed in on the derelict spacecraft, O'Neil spotted what he assumed to be a hangar opening and headed for it. These Baseships were unlike any spacecraft he had ever seen before, so it was difficult to find anything that looked familiar. Still, if they launched and recovered raiders then they needed hangars to store them in.

As he steered them around the broken remains of a Cylon raider, O'Neil turned to Munro, who was sitting in the co-pilots chair. "So, Danny, tell me something."

Munro was looking like a kid on his way to a theme park, tensed up in anticipation of what was to come. "What's that?"

"I was hoping you could explain why we're risking our lives, our ship, and possibly my underwear to pay a visit to a derelict Cylon ship that's about to crash into a planet?"

"Wish I had an answer for you, Rick," he admitted.

"I'd settle for knowing what's going on in your head right now."

Munro turned to look at him. "You ever get a feeling... a gut instinct about something? And even if it goes against everything your logical mind is telling you, you just… _know_ that it's right?"

"I guess." He shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Yeah, well, times that by about a thousand and that's what I'm feeling right now."

"I've never seen you act like this. Why has this happened all of a sudden?"

"I don't know. It started when I heard that music over the radio." He sighed. "But something's happening... something important."

"What do you mean?"

"The reason we've survived this long, the reason we got through the battle at the yards, the reason we've been on the run all these years. You think it was all just coincidence or a lucky break?" He shook his head. "It's something bigger than you and me. Just for a second, back on Endurance, I felt like it all made sense somehow, like I could see everything from then until now, all the paths converging. And whatever it is, it's going to happen here and now."

O'Neil was starting to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "You're saying we were _destined_ to come here?"

"Call it destiny, call it fate, call it whatever you want. There's a reason we found this ship today." He pointed at the looming form of the Baseship as they closed in. "And whatever that reason is, we'll find it in there."

As he said this, they crossed the threshold and were swallowed up by darkness. Passing through the outer hangar door, they now found themselves in a long tunnel. The walls were red and fleshy looking, almost as if they were biological. There were no lights or power, forcing O'Neil to switch on the Raptor's navigation lights. A swathe of bright light cut through the gloom.

"No turning back now," he said under his breath.

Spotting what he assumed to be a landing platform recessed into the wall about a hundred metres away, he eased the Raptor over to it and brought them down for a soft landing. The craft touched down with a slight bump, and that was it. They were aboard the Cylon Baseship.

O'Neil turned to the six Marines in the crew compartment. "Okay, this is it, gentlemen. Lock and load. Keep your eyes open out there, and watch your backs."

The looks they gave him said they really didn't need to be told that. Nonetheless, they nodded and checked their weapons. Drake moved across the compartment and unlocked the outer hatch, which slid open with a hiss of air. There was no atmosphere out there, so they were all wearing environment suits.

As soon as the door was open, the Marines fanned out across the landing pad, taking up firing positions in case they were ambushed. Unholstering his side arm, O'Neil stepped out to join them. He felt about the same weight as on _Endurance_, meaning the ship's artificial gravity was still functioning.

On the other side of the pad was a hatch leading deeper into the ship. O'Neil tapped Drake on the shoulder to get his attention, then pointed towards it. "Let's go."

With the Marines scouting ahead of them, O'Neil and Munro crossed the platform and halted beside the door. Unlike the flesh-like hanger they had flown through, this hatch was metal and mechanical. It looked to be an airlock of some kind. A control unit was set into the wall beside it. It was still illuminated.

Lacking any other direction, O'Neil took a step forward and pressed what he assumed to be the activate button. There was a pause, and then to his surprise, a blast door slid down from the ceiling, closing the landing pad off from the rest of the hangar.

With the pad repressurised, the access door slid open. With O'Neil leading the way, the boarding party advanced inside. They now found themselves in a corridor, clearly a habitable section of the Baseship.

At one time it must have been sleek and clean, with smooth metal walls and floors. Now the place was a wreck. Lights flickered on and off, one long wall panel was blackened and twisted, with heavy support beams exposed beneath. The floor was covered with pieces of wreckage and broken electrical cables.

Drake did a check with his atmospheric sensors. "We've still got atmosphere in here," he reported. "I'm not detecting any chemicals or toxins."

Without saying anything, Munro reached up, undid the locking mechanism on his helmet and pulled it off. O'Neil moved to stop him, but it was too late. Hesitating a moment, he took a breath.

"It's breathable," he said after a few anxious seconds. "It's okay."

O'Neil waited a moment longer, then removed his own helmet. The air tasted of burned plastic and metal, but as Munro had said, it was breathable.

As the rest of the Marines removed their own helmets, O'Neil's radio earpiece sparked up. "_Endurance_ to boarding party. What's your situation over there?"

It was Starke, sounding both tense and concerned. He couldn't blame her.

"We've just touched down," O'Neil replied. "No sign of hostiles. We're moving deeper into the ship."

"I suggest you don't hang around," she said. "Your orbit's decaying. You don't want to be onboard when that thing drops into the atmosphere."

"Roger that. Boarding party out." He turned to one of the Marines, who was holding a direction finder. "You got a fix on the signal, Ellis?"

The young man nodded, still staring at the readout on the bulky device. "It's this way, about two hundred metres," he said, pointing down the corridor.

"All right. Let's saddle up," O'Neil said, leading the way.

"Wait," Munro interjected.

"What is it?"

The younger man pointed the other way. "That way will get us there faster. If I'm right, it leads to a central access corridor that runs the full length of the ship."

"And how would you know that, Danny?"

"I trust my instincts, and this place is familiar," he replied. "I don't know why, but I know this is the right way. Trust me."

O'Neil looked at him a moment longer before making his decision. "All right. We'll play it your way. Let's go."

Following Munro's lead, they found that their hallway did indeed curve around to join a larger access shaft. Drake was first in, assault rifle tight against his shoulder. But as soon as he looked up ahead, he stopped.

"Cylon!" he hissed.

The group tensed, grasping their weapons a little tighter as they advanced. Lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, its metal head blackened and caved in, was a Cylon Centurion. It wasn't moving.

Drake gave it a kick, but still there was no response. "It's out of action. Must have been standing next to that wall when it blew," he said, nodding towards a blasted out section of corridor beside it.

There was no time to examine it further. "Let's move on," O'Neil said.

*****

ENDURANCE CIC

07:28 HOURS

Starke paced back and forth beside the command console, unable to contain her growing unease. She felt useless, stuck aboard this old warship, unable to do anything to help O'Neil and the others. But more than that, she sensed something wasn't right about this situation. Her instincts had served her well in the past, and she wasn't inclined to ignore them now.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Harper slapped the edge of his fire control console. The status board flickered for a moment, then returned to normal. "Frakking piece of junk!" he snapped in frustration.

Starke frowned, then moved over to talk to him. "What's wrong?"

"The fire control system's glitching out on me," he replied. "I've been chasing faults in the central computer for the past couple of months, but they've been getting worse lately."

"Why?"

"Old age," was the simple answer. "The processors, the memory cores, the relays... they're all old and overloaded. They should have been replaced years ago, but we've got no spares."

"Can you keep it together until we get through this?" she asked.

"I think so," he said, hurriedly flicking switches across the board.

Starke lowered her voice. "You've pulled us through by the skin of our teeth more times than I can count, Ryan. I know you'll do it again."

He looked up at her, and just for a moment, he smiled and the tension in him abated. "Be a shame to interrupt a winning streak, huh? I won't let you down."

Starke smiled back, feeling a strange and unexpected surge of warmth for the weapons officer, then pushed the feelings aside and returned to the command console. "Mr Greene, launch our remaining two Raptors," she said. "I want them to establish a recon patrol, and coordinate their DRADIS sweeps with you. If something tries to get the drop on us, I want to know about it first."

Greene hesitated for a moment. "But sir, if the Commander needs help..."

"I'm aware of the risks," she cut in. "But our responsibility is to this ship and its crew. And right now I'd settle for knowing what's out there. Launch the Raptors."

"Yes, sir."

*****

BASESHIP

07:30 HOURS

O'Neil backed up against the wall, holding his pistol tightly. The rest of the group were in a similar position, ready to enter the room that lay beyond the damaged bulkhead in front of them. They had come across several more Centurions, all destroyed, but so far they hadn't encountered a single living thing aboard this ship.

Corporal Ellis consulted his direction finder again. "It's definitely coming from in there," he confirmed.

O'Neil nodded. "Okay. Get ready to go in. Drake, get on that door."

The big burly Marine grasped the door, ready to haul it open by hand.

O'Neil pressed the transmit button on his radio. "_Endurance_, this is boarding party. We think we've found the source of the signal. It's in a room just in front of us. We're about to go in."

"Roger that, boarding party. Watch yourself, Rick. Standing by."

"You don't have to tell me twice," he assured her. "Will advise. Over."

With one curt command, Drake hauled the protesting door open. O'Neil was first in, with Munro and several other Marines right behind him.

The room they now found themselves in was large, with a wide expanse of floor and a high domed ceiling. The lights were dimmed, and it was obvious from the scorch marks and broken panelling on one wall that the place had taken serious damage. Glass screens extended down from the roof, with strange red symbols and characters streaming down them like rain.

But it was the object in the centre of the room that caught his attention right away. It was a tank of some kind of fluid, with wires and cables trailing into it. And lying in the midst of this strange tank was what looked like a human figure, and it was speaking.

"End of line. End of line. End of line."

Staring at it in fascination, he moved closer to get a better look. The rest of the Marines also closed in, temporarily forgetting the need to secure their perimeter.

The thing lying in the tank was definitely humanoid in appearance. Only its head was visible above the surface, cold eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, but he could see the vague outline of arms and legs in the opaque liquid. Its facial features were neither masculine nor feminine, making it impossible to determine its gender - if it even had one. There was no hair on its body, no skin pigmentation, no scars or imperfections.

"End of line. End of line. End of line," it went on, seemingly caught in some kind of internal loop.

"What the hell is this thing?" O'Neil asked.

"The source of the signal, sir," Ellis said. He switched off the direction finder and glanced around the room. "This must be some kind of control room. As near as I can tell, we're right in the centre of the ship."

"But how? There's no consoles, no readouts," O'Neil remarked. "If this is a control room, where are the controls?"

"That," Munro said, nodding at the being in the tank. "Look at the wires leading in. This thing, whatever it is, is hard-wired into the ship's systems."

"You're saying it's connected up to the ship's main computer?" Ellis wondered.

The XO shook his head. "I'm saying it _is_ the ship's main computer."

It made sense, in a bizarre way. Cylons had clearly found a way to interface machines with human tissue. O'Neil moved closer and knelt down at the edge of the tank, still staring at the creature. "And somehow it's transmitting a signal." He chewed his lip for a moment. "We need to communicate with it."

He leaned forward a little, looked into its eyes and raised his voice. "Can you hear us? Can you understand what we're saying?"

There was no hint of recognition in its eyes as it carried on speaking. "End of line. End of line. End of line."

He reached out and snapped his fingers in front of its face, just inches away. Still it showed no awareness of his presence.

"Sir, it might be that it's not capable to verbal communication like we are," Ellis suggested. "If it's mind is occupied with running the ship's systems, it's probably not even aware of what's going on around it."

"Or it might have been damaged along with the rest of the ship," Drake reasoned. "Maybe that's why it keeps saying the same thing over and over."

At that moment, a deep rumble came from deep within the Baseship. The floor beneath their feet vibrated, and the metal beams groaned as if under great stress.

"The damage must have compromised the ship's structure," Drake said. "I don't think it'll hold together much longer."

They were running out of time. O'Neil glanced up at Munro. "What about you, Danny? Any ideas?"

The younger man walked over and knelt down next to him. Then, without saying anything, reached out and dipped his hand into the liquid.

The reaction was as violent and unexpected as it was immediate. The creature convulsed, back arching as if it had been electrocuted, then let out a horrible scream of pain. The lights in the room dimmed for a moment, and the flow of red symbols was interrupted.

The Marines nearby jumped in fear, raising their rifles to fire on it. "Hold your fire!" O'Neil had the presence of mind to say.

*****

ENDURANCE CIC

07:35 HOURS

For a moment, all of the DRADIS displays in the room broke up and flickered as if they were being jammed by something.

Starke frowned in surprise. "What the hell was that?"

"High frequency transmissions coming from the Baseship," Greene reported. "The damn thing went off like a jamming beacon. It's overloaded our DRADIS system."

"Can you get it back up?" the woman asked urgently.

"Working on it, sir."

She stared at the image of the baseship on the screens. "I hope you know what you're doing, Rick."

*****

BASESHIP

07:36 HOURS

Suddenly the creature's hand shot out of the tank and grabbed Munro's arm. Its once lifeless eyes now stared right into his, clear and focussed. "That which was lost is found again," it said, its voice hard and urgent.

"Danny, are you all right?" O'Neil asked.

Munro said nothing, simply stared into the eyes of the Cylon being, his face frozen as if in shock.

"There must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief," it went on, slower now, its oddly emotionless voice a strange counterpart to the lyrics it was reciting.

To O'Neil's amazement, Munro joined in, his voice perfectly in step with the creature. "There's too much confusion. I can't get no relief. Businessman they drink my wine. Plow men dig my earth. None will level on the line. Nobody of it is worth."

The two of them were silent for a moment, before the creature spoke once more. "All of this has happened before. And all of it will happen again. Only you can lead them home."

With that, the creature released its hold and Munro collapsed to the deck.

*****

ENDURANCE CIC

07:40 HOURS

"New DRADIS contact!" Greene warned. "One of the recon Raptors just picked it up. Maximum range, but it's a firm contact."

Starke's heart leapt. "Can you identify?"

"Three... No, make that _four_ Baseships. They're at the edge of the system."

"Get me a track."

"They're approaching at what I guess is flank speed. I'd say we have about five minutes before they get here." He looked at her across the room. "That high frequency pulse must have been some kind of warning. It led them right to us."

"Frak," she said under her breath. There was nothing they could do against four Baseships. "Recall both Raptors now, and set Condition One throughout the ship. Man battle stations."

"Yes, sir."

Alarms sounded, and the lighting in CIC changed to red to signify that the old ship was now at full alert.

*****

BASESHIP

07:42 HOURS

O'Neil hurried over to his stricken friend. He was lying on the deck, his face pale and his eyes closed. "Danny. Danny! Talk to me!"

His eyes opened slowly to focus on O'Neil. And to the older man's surprise, he smiled. "Rick."

"Are you okay?"

"Very much so," he replied.

"What happened? What was that all about?"

Munro's smile broadened. "Answers."

But before O'Neil could say anything more, a shout came from the other side of the room. "Nobody move! Lay down your weapons!"

Snatching up his pistol instinctively, O'Neil whirled around to face the unexpected threat. But when he caught sight of the woman standing in the doorway, he froze.

"Sam?"


	19. Everything must end

Chapter 19 – Everything must end

It was her. As impossible as he knew it to be, there was no denying what his eyes were telling him. Samantha was standing only a few yards away, as real and alive as she had been three years ago.

But this time she was flanked by two Cylon Centurions, their heavy blast armour gleaming in the dim light. Their auto cannons were trained on the men in the room, red eyes moving slowly back and forth as they scanned for threats. Yet strangely, neither of them fired.

Half a dozen automatic assault rifles were levelled at them, the Colonial Marines waiting for the order to fire. Neither side moved an inch.

O'Neil was almost oblivious to everything else as he stared at Samantha. She looked just as he remembered her; tall and slender, her dark hair tied back in a simple ponytail, her deep brown eyes focussed on him. Her civilian clothes were grubby and stained with blood - her own, or someone else's, he couldn't tell. But she had a cut above her left eye, and bruising to the side of her face that suggested she had been in action not long before.

Her eyes flickered with recognition. "Rick," she said, with a mixture of shock and joy.

On impulse, he rose to his feet and moved towards her. But at the same moment she raised a pistol and aimed it at his head. "Back off!" she ordered, her expression hardening again.

"Sam, it's me," he said, recovering himself a little. "Put the gun down. Nobody has to die here."

"What are we doing, sir?" Drake hissed. He had his rifle up in his shoulder and was staring down the holographic sight. At this range, he could hardly miss.

"Hold your fire, Captain," O'Neil ordered. He knew the man was just waiting for a chance to drop her.

"She's a Cylon," Drake shot back. "She tried to kill you once. You going to let her try again?"

"Nobody fires without my order!" he snapped. "We don't need a massacre here. Enough people have died already." He turned his attention back to the woman, raising his hands to show he was no threat. "It's all right, Sam. Tell your Centurions to stand down."

"How do I know you won't kill us?" she asked. "You did it to me once already."

"I've spent three years fighting and killing. And where's it got us? Nowhere." He swallowed. "Someone smarter than me once said that survival isn't a right – you have to earn it. I'm trying to earn it today. Put down your guns, and let's talk."

Samantha stared at him for a long moment, then finally nodded to the Centurions beside her. As one, they lowered their auto cannons, though they made no move to advance or retreat. They just stood there, impassively watching events unfolding before them.

"All right, we've lowered our weapons. Are you going to do the same thing?"

O'Neil turned to the Marines around him. "Stand down."

Reluctantly they lowered their assault rifles, though they remained tense.

Samantha wasted no time voicing her first question. "What the hell are you doing here, Rick?"

"We intercepted your signal."

Her dark brows drew together. "What signal?"

"That thing in there." He pointed at the creature now lying motionless in the tank. "It was broadcasting a signal of some kind. We moved in for a closer look, then my first officer started acting weird and demanded that he we come over here. So to answer your question, I don't have a damn clue why we're here, but maybe that man over there does," he said, pointing to Munro, who was still lying on the deck where he had fallen, as if in a trance.

At that moment, O'Neil's radio crackled into life. "_Endurance_ to boarding party."

"Go," he replied.

"Sir, we've got a new problem," Starke said. "We have four Baseships on an intercept course. I think they picked up some kind of signal burst from your ship. It almost wiped out our DRADIS system."

"Frak," he said under his breath. "How long before they get here?"

"Three, maybe four minutes at most."

Damn it. That wasn't enough time to get to the Raptor and escape. "Get out of here, Lieutenant," he said immediately. "Use your FTL. We'll meet you at the rendezvous coordinates if we can."

"No way, sir. We won't leave you behind."

"Damn it, there's more at stake here than just our lives! Get out of here before it's too late - that's an order. Boarding party out." Clicking off his radio, he turned to the rest of the boarding party. "Marines, get ready to move out!"

"What's going on?" Samantha asked.

"Four Baseships are on their way here. Friends of yours?"

"Not friends. They're coming here to kill us," another voice said.

At this moment, a second woman moved forward into view, and once again O'Neil felt a shiver run down his spine. The last time he had seen this woman had been in the brig aboard _Pegasus_. It felt like a lifetime ago now.

"Gina," he said, his voice low.

The woman shook her head. "No. The one you knew as Gina is dead, but there were many like her."

"Well, whoever the frak you are, if you want to stay alive, I suggest you come with us."

The number Six eyed him suspiciously. "What will you do with us when we're aboard your ship?"

"I'm not Admiral Cain," he replied. "You'll get fair treatment."

They were interrupted by a deep rumble that passed through the ship. The metal beams around them creaked and groaned, and the lights flickered. Further away, they heard the tear of rending metal as an overloaded frame gave way.

"We're running out of time," O'Neil prompted once the tremors finally abated. The ship was starting to come apart around them. "Decide now."

The woman was silent for several seconds. "All right," she finally decided.

"Are you out of your mind?" Drake cut in. "They're our enemies!"

O'Neil turned on him. "They're the enemies of our enemies. Right now, that's good enough for me." He looked back at the two humanoid Cylons. "If you try to frak us over, I'll kill you myself."

The Six smiled faintly. "I'm used to that."

He hurried over to Munro and knelt down beside him. The younger man was still conscious, but he looked vague and spaced out. "Danny, come on, we're leaving."

"Rick?" Munro seemed to focus on him with difficulty. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, buddy. But I know we need to get out of here." He hesitated for a moment. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I think so, but it's… confused. Memories and thoughts all mixed up together. I need time to make sense of it."

"Great. You've got about three minutes before the Cylons get here." He hauled Munro to his feet. "Marines, we are leaving!"

*****

The tension in _Endurance's_ CIC was reaching breaking point. Starke stood by the command console, bathed in red light as she watched the CIC crew frantically working at their stations.

"Both Raptors aboard, sir," Greene reported. "The hangar is secured."

"All decks report Condition One set," Harper said. "Main and secondary batteries ready in all respects."

"Sir, shall I spool up the FTL drive?" Greene asked.

She stared at the DRADIS screens, watching the images of the Baseships approaching. Hidden amongst the debris field, _Endurance_ was more or less invisible to the enemy sensors. For now, at least. The ruse wouldn't last long as they got closer, however.

"We can't leave O'Neil behind."

"Sir, we have our orders," Greene retorted. "We can't do any good against four Baseships. It would be suicide to stay here."

The young woman leaned on the console and sighed deeply. "Very well. Spool up the FTL. Prepare to jump the ship."

*****

As the small group charged down the access corridor towards the main hangar, O'Neil stole a glance at Samantha. "I put you out an airlock, Sam."

"Yes, you did," she confirmed.

"So how can you be here?"

"Because we could resurrect after we die," the number Six explained. "Our consciousness downloads into a new body, and we wake up with all our memories as if nothing happened."

"So why isn't Gina still alive?" O'Neil wondered.

"Because our resurrection hub was destroyed by _Galactica_ and _Pegasus_ two years ago. If we die now, it's forever."

O'Neil gasped. _Pegasus_ had survived? And _Galactica_?

"Is that how you ended up here?" Drake asked.

"This had nothing to do with _Galactica_. This was Cavil's doing," Samantha answered.

"Who?"

"There are eight Cylon models. All Cylons of the same model are individuals, but they were created from the same basic template. He was the first. Some refer to his model as the Ones, but he answers to the name Cavil. He wanted to lobotomise all of our Raiders to stop them thinking for themselves. He was worried they might decide not to fight anymore. It was an abomination."

"Cylons acting all humane now? That's a frakking joke," Ellis scoffed.

She glared at him for a moment, but carried on her narrative. "The Sixes, the Eights and the Twos disagreed with him, tried to make him see sense. He promised to listen to us, but instead he lured our ships into an ambush and annihilated them. We escaped with a blind FTL jump, but it destroyed most of the ship and killed almost everyone onboard. Since then we've been drifting."

O'Neil was silent for a moment, digesting everything he'd heard. "You said _Galactica_ and _Pegasus_ destroyed your Resurrection Ship. Do you know where they are now?"

"We know _Pegasus_ was destroyed in battle over New Caprica, but _Galactica_ survived with a fleet of civilian ships. Admiral Adama's been leading them for the past three years, trying to find a new home for his people, trying to find a way to Earth."

O'Neil frowned. He should have known there were other survivors. But what was Adama hoping to achieve. "Earth? Earth's a myth."

The blonde Cylon looked at him but said nothing.

*****

"The board is set," Greene said. "FTL standing by. Ready to jump at your command, sir."

Starke exhaled slowly before giving her order. "Jump the ship."

Greene reached for the FTL ignition lever, but as he did so, the lights flickered and dimmed in the CIC, and the FTL status board changed from green to red.

"What's going on?" Starke asked as the command crew anxiously scanned their monitors. "Get me a systems check."

"Frak!" Greene growled, banging his fist down on the FTL terminal. "I lost FTL control. The whole thing's dead. We're sitting ducks."

"Switch to backup," Starke ordered.

"No good. The system's overloaded."

Starke clenched her fists. After everything they had been through, why had the ship let them down now? "Helm, all ahead flank," she said through gritted teeth. "Get us out of here. Put us on the far side of the planet."

Their only chance was to use the planet as a shield to cover their escape. There was no way they could outrun the Cylons under sub-light engines.

"Yes, sir."

The engines rumbled with increased power, propelling the Dreadnought away from the approaching Baseships.

*****

They were almost at the hangar now. The Centurions moved forward ahead of the group, their metal feet pounding the deck as they charged on relentlessly.

"What did it feel like?" Corporal Ellis asked suddenly.

Samantha looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Dying. I mean, you _died _and then came back. Not many people get to do that. What did it feel like?"

"Strange. Dying wasn't so bad, but it hurt more than I expected. I don't remember much about the time in between, but I remember being resurrected. There was… confusion, disorientation, pain when I took my first breath. I suppose it was like being born."

"Cool," he remarked, evidently impressed.

O'Neil was about to say something, but paused when the two Centurions up ahead suddenly halted. What were they doing? Had they seen something?

No sooner had he thought this than the corridor erupted with the roar of auto cannon fire, the echoes reverberating off the walls. One Centurion was immediately cut down, its casing riddled with shell holes. The other raised its weapon arm and replied with a hail of fire before it too succumbed to the relentless hail of fire directed at it.

"Contact!" O'Neil yelled, grabbing Samantha and hauling her behind cover just as more Centurions charged around a bend in the corridor, their weapons blazing.

One Marine took a burst in the chest and collapsed to the ground. His body armour was no match for heavy calibre slugs. The rest quickly sought cover of their own before returning fire.

Centurions were heavily armoured, able to withstand great punishment in combat. But even they weren't invincible. One staggered back as a dozen rounds slammed into its body, then finally fell to the deck as one penetrated its head armour to destroy the delicate electronics within.

"Grenade!" Drake yelled as he pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade, held it for a couple of seconds to let the fuse burn down, then hurled it down the corridor.

O'Neil flattened himself against the wall as the device detonated. In such a confined space, the blast was deafening, and he could actually feel the concussive wave pass over him.

With his ears still ringing, he looked up to survey the damage. At least three Centurions had been destroyed or disabled by the blast. One, its legs blown off, was struggling to get up. But more were coming forward, walking right over the remains of their fallen brethren.

"Fire! Fire!" O'Neil yelled, grabbing the fallen Marine's assault rifle and opening fire on the nearest one on full automatic. The weapon kicked and roared in his hands like a living thing, spraying spent shell casings on the deck.

*****

As Greene and several others wrestled with the FTL command console, Starke picked up the phone that linked her into O'Neil's radio net.

"_Endurance_ to boarding party."

A moment later, O'Neil's voice filled the speakers. It was faint and crackly with the increased distance, but audible nonetheless. "What the hell are you still doing here, Lieutenant?" he demanded. "I ordered you to leave!"

She could have sworn she heard gunfire in the background.

"Our FTL is down. What's your situation?"

"We've been ambushed by Centurions. I guess the Cylons boarded us. We're trying to make it back to the Raptor, but we're outnumbered and outgunned." A loud explosion sounded nearby. "Frak! Get out of here as soon as you have FTL back."

Starke swallowed, but nodded reluctantly. "Roger that. Good luck."

"And you. O'Neil out."

For a moment, the CIC fell into silence as all eyes turned to Starke. She was beginning to realise what a heavy burden it was to be in command of a ship in time of war.

"What are your orders, sir?" Greene asked.

The woman turned to look at him. "Get that FTL back online."

Leaving behind the madness in the command centre for a moment, Starke walked over to the bulkhead that marked the entrance to the CIC. She reached out and touched the metal frame, feeling the faint throb of power coursing through it.

"I know you're old and tired, and I know we've asked for everything you have to give, but we need you… One last time, we need you. Please."

*****

"I'm out!" Ellis yelled, dropping his now useless assault rifle and drawing his side arm instead. They had taken down eight Centurions at the cost of most of their ammunition and three Marines, but the enemy were still coming.

"Fall back!" O'Neil yelled, emptying his remaining ammunition in one continuous burst. They couldn't hold out any longer here.

As one, the small group rose up and retreated back down the corridor, turning right at the first intersection they came across. Breathing hard, O'Neil ejected the magazine from his assault rifle and checked to see how many rounds remained. Empty – frak.

"Is there any other way to the hangar from here?" he asked in desperation.

Samantha shook her head. "All the other passages are open to space. This is the only way through."

He gritted his teeth, clutching the pistol tighter. "Figured as much."

"I've got less than half a mag left," Drake warned.

"Rick?" Samantha said, her voice quieter now.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming here. Thank you for trying to help."

He turned to look at her. Then, acting on pure instinct, he grabbed her, pulled her close and kissed her fiercely.

Just then, the stamp of metallic feet filled the corridor, and two Centurions appeared out of the darkness.

"Frak!" Ellis yelled, charging straight at them, firing almost indiscriminately with his pistol. The nearest one easily shrugged off the desperate rain of bullets, turned and gave him a full burst to the chest. The rounds tore through his body, blood spraying the walls as he fell to the deck.

"No!" O'Neil yelled, levelling his weapon at the Centurion.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said.

O'Neil's brows drew together. Hearing a sharp intake of breath beside him, he turned to look at the Six. Her eyes were wide open.

"It's him," she whispered.

At this, a man walked into view, standing between the two Centurions. He was short and lightly built, probably in his late fifties and with thinning hair. But despite his unassuming appearance, his eyes shone with malice.

"You can't beat us," he said. "Do us all a favour and drop your guns. Come on, do it now."

With no other option, O'Neil and Samantha laid their weapons on the deck. The others reluctantly followed suit.

"You bastard," the Six spat. "You betrayed us, killed everyone else and left us to die!"

"Oh, hi there, Sophia," Cavil said, pretending to act surprised. "I see you survived. You're persistent, I'll give you that."

"You didn't finish the job. You always were careless, John."

O'Neil looked around in surprise. It wasn't the Six who had spoken, it was Munro. The XO was standing a few feet away, glaring at Cavil with barely concealed hatred.

This was enough to break the older Cylon's composure. "It _is _you! I thought I'd seen the last of you a long time ago."

"What's he talking about, Danny?" O'Neil asked.

"Danny? That what you're answering to these days?" Cavil mocked.

Munro looked at his friend. "I understand now, Rick," he said calmly. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long, but I know the truth now. I'm a Cylon."


	20. A higher purpose

Chapter 20 - A higher purpose

For several seconds, O'Neil could do nothing but stare at his friend with an expression of blank astonishment. Munro had been a Cylon all this time?

"Why, Danny?" he managed to say.

Munro nodded at Cavil. "In the beginning, eight of us were created by Her – the first eight, the templates for our models. Each of us were created for a different purpose, with different traits and abilities. John here was the first, the prototype. Then others followed. She made me sensitive to the world around me, able to see things that others couldn't… Able to communicate with the hybrids." He shook his head. "She was closer to me than the other models, but John couldn't handle it. He was consumed with jealousy, so he poisoned the fluid in the resurrection tanks and corrupted my model's genetic code."

O'Neil stood rooted to the spot, listening in fascination as the story unfolded. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the number Six Sophia, and turned his head just a little to look at her. Her eyes met his, and she nodded faintly to the fallen body of Corporal Ellis. Still held secure in a pouch of his body armour was a fragmentation grenade.

"But you escaped," Cavil said, his eyes gleaming with malice.

"Ellen," Munro explained. "She sent me away before you could find me, suppressed my memories so I'd have no knowledge of who I was or where I came from."

"She abandoned you," Cavil mocked.

"She gave me the best chance she could," Munro countered. "She let me live amongst the humans, so that one day I could do what I was created to do."

The old Cylon frowned. "And what's that?"

"You still don't understand, do you, John?" Munro smiled faintly. "She gave me so much more than you ever knew. You might be smart and cunning and manipulative, but there was one gift she never gave you – understanding of your true purpose. I'm sorry for you."

Suddenly Cavil's face twisted in anger. "Don't be."

With that, he raised his pistol and fired. The report of the shot echoed around the corridor, even as Munro let out a gasp of pain and surprise, and fell to his knees.

"No!" O'Neil screamed, charging forward at Cavil in a blind rage.

In one swift movement, the nearest Cylon Centurion swept its arm around, catching him square in the chest with a backhanded strike. The impact of it sent him flying back against the corridor wall with bone cracking force. Unable to support himself, he fell to the deck with spots of light flashing before his eyes, struggling to draw breath.

Ignoring O'Neil's desperate attempt to rescue his friend, Cavil looked down at Munro. The young man was still on his knees, looking down at the blood now pumping from the gunshot wound in his chest.

"I could have just destroyed this ship and everyone on it, but I came here myself to finish this. Because I wanted you to look into my eyes and know that I was the one who killed you," Cavil taunted.

Munro coughed, a fine spray of blood staining the steel deck.

"Tell me Daniel, if you were given such 'great understanding and knowledge', why didn't you see this coming?" the old man asked, his expression a mixture of pity and contempt.

Suddenly Munro looked up at him, and despite the pain, his eyes were clear and focussed. "I did."

At that moment, the Baseship shook violently around them as the structure began to give way. The deck lurched beneath their feet. Just for a moment, Cavil was knocked off balance, and was forced to throw his arm out to steady himself.

O'Neil looked up and, fighting the pain that coursed through his body, tried to pull himself off the deck. That strike from the Centurion had broken several ribs for sure. Every breath brought a fresh stab of pain, and he felt his vision grow hazy as it threatened to overwhelm him.

Then, just like that, a memory flashed before his mind's eye.

_"Why?" he asked, as frustrated as he was baffled. "This wasn't a title fight - it didn't mean anything. You're not even close to being a contender now. So what was the point? Why fight so hard when there was nothing to gain?" _

_The man rose to his feet. Old, beaten and bruised he might have been, but he was still a formidable figure. "If you have to ask that question, you've got no place calling yourself a fighter," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. "We don't do this for pay days or title shots. We fight because that's what we're born to do, because no matter what happens out there in the world, there's still honour to be found in that ring. Maybe one day you'll understand that." _

An instant later, he saw Admiral Cain sitting in her Ready Room, staring at him with disapproval.

"_You know what it means to wear those bars on your shoulder?" she asked. "What it really means to be a ship Commander? It's not about thinking fast under pressure. Anyone can do that. It's about making the hard decisions; the decisions nobody else is prepared to face up to. We're at war, son. And fighting a war means making sacrifices. If you can't handle that, you've got no place calling yourself a Commander." _

No.

He wasn't going to let it end like this. This was his chance, his last chance.

New strength surged into his muscles and his heart started to beat faster as adrenaline pumped through his veins. Forgetting the pain, forgetting the fatigue, forgetting all else, he forced himself off the deck, reached out and snatched up the pistol he had dropped.

At the same moment, Sophia rushed past him, grabbed the grenade still attached to Ellis' body armour and yanked the pin free. For a fleeting moment, her eyes met with O'Neil's, and he knew from the look in them what she was planning to do. He couldn't stop her, couldn't try to talk her out of it. She had made her choice. All he could do was try to help her.

Seeing her movement and guessing her intentions, the nearest Centurion whirled around to bring its auto cannon to bear. O'Neil levelled his pistol at its head and snapped off three shots just as fast as his finger could squeeze the trigger. The machine toppled back and fell, its processing units destroyed.

The second Centurion fell to a volley of fire from Drake and Samantha before it could open fire on the Six.

Cavil looked up as the woman charged him, the grenade still clutched in her hand, and his face froze in shock as the realization finally hit him.

"No." He raised his pistol to fire, but it was too late. In a last act of defiance and hatred, she threw the grenade down at his feet.

An instant later, the far end of the corridor was engulfed in flames as the grenade detonated. O'Neil was thrown back by the force of the blast, another wave of pain washing over him as he landed on his ribs.

Then he felt someone tugging on his sleeve, and looked up with bleary eyes to see Samantha desperately trying to pull him up. He shook his head, and at last the world swam back into focus.

"Rick, get up!" she said, having to yell to be heard over the roar building up around them. The deck was shaking. "This ship's coming apart! We have to go!"

Coughing and wincing with pain, O'Neil forced himself up and limped over to Munro. "Danny, can you walk?"

Despite the pain, Munro managed a smile. "Get me on my feet and I'll dance a jig for you."

"Sam, give me a hand!" O'Neil said, looping Munro's arm over his shoulder. "Drake, Mathis, take point!"

With the two Marines leading the way, O'Neil and Samantha supported their injured comrade down the corridor. As they passed the site of the grenade detonation, O'Neil spared a glance for Sophia. She was dead, having given her life to save theirs. There was nothing he could do for her now except make her sacrifice mean something.

"Thank you," he whispered as they passed.

The Baseship was coming apart. A high pressure pipe ruptured as they passed, venting gas into the corridor. Lights flickered and shorted out, and everywhere there was the scream of rending metal as the ship broke apart in its death throes. Alarms echoed down the empty corridors.

Munro tripped and lost his balance, groaning in pain as he fell, but O'Neil and Samantha hauled him to his feet again. "Come on, you son of a bitch!" O'Neil yelled. "I didn't come all this way to leave your ass behind now!"

They were almost there. The door for the hangar was just up ahead. Drake and Mathis hurried on ahead, hammering at the control panel to get it to open, but the big door remained shut.

"We're gonna have to blow it! Find cover!" Drake warned, taking out a chunk of plastic explosive and slamming it against the centre of the door. Inserting a detonator into the mixture, he pulled a pin that triggered the simple fuse mechanism, then sprinted back down the corridor and flattened himself against the deck. "Fire in the hole!"

The blast was far louder than the grenade had been, almost enough to destroy whatever sense of hearing they had left. The far end of the corridor disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame, and when it cleared, nothing remained of the door except shards of twisted metal.

"This is it!" O'Neil yelled. "Let's go! Move!"

Beyond the door lay the landing pad where they had made entry. The Raptor was still where they had left it, apparently undamaged. Once more Drake took the lead, climbing up onto the wing and popping the crew hatch. Fighting their way onto the aircraft, O'Neil and Samantha laid Munro down.

"Drake, Mathis, close the hatch and get him strapped in!" O'Neil yelled. Munro needed medical attention, but that would have to wait until they were airborne. None of them would survive if they didn't get out of here now.

Wasting no time, he climbed through into the cockpit and hurriedly strapped himself into the pilot's seat. Samantha took the copilots chair.

Knowing they might have to leave in a hurry, he had left most of the ship's systems idling rather than power them down. All it took was a few flicks, and the engines were back online. It was just as well, because they had no time for pre-flight checks now.

Throttling up, he lifted the Raptor off the pad and spun them around to face the hangar doors, which remained resolutely shut.

"What do we do?" Samantha asked. "They're jammed!"

O'Neil knew exactly what he was going to do.

"Brace yourself!" Flicking the Master Arm switch, he aimed their nose more or less straight at the doors and triggered two missiles. The projectiles streaked through the air, trailing smoke, before impacting and detonating with a flash.

The resultant fireball lasted only an instant, as the air was sucked right out of the room into the vacuum beyond, leaving a forty foot hole in the reinforced doors. It would have to do. Grabbing the throttle, O'Neil gave them full thrust. The engines roared, slamming them back into their seats as the Raptor surged forwards and disappeared through the gaping hole.

"Spool up the FTL," he ordered as they raced through the collapsing hangar at maximum thrust. Structural membranes gave way around them, hurling wreckage and fire across their path. O'Neil flinched as pieces of debris ricocheted off the canopy, but managed to hold his course.

"I'm on it." Samantha turned her attention to the FTL console, hurriedly flicking switches to arm the jump drive.

Beneath them, a fuel bunker ruptured just as the Raptor soared past, engulfing them in flames. The small craft shuddered, knocked off course by the impacts. Behind them, an instrument panel shorted out.

"Come on!" O'Neil yelled, jamming the throttle as far forward as it would go.

An instant later, the flames vanished and the dying Baseship was behind them as it plunged into the atmosphere. They were free! Ahead lay the vast curve of the planet, now frighteningly close. Pulling back on the stick, O'Neil brought the Raptor back into space. With its engines roaring, the aircraft clawed for altitude.

"We made it," Samantha gasped, her voice one of disbelief.

O'Neil grinned, but as his eyes focussed on what lay ahead of them, his grin vanished. "Not yet," he said.

Samantha followed his gaze, and her eyes opened wider. Ahead of them lay an armada of four Baseships. They were still distant, but even from this range she could see hundreds of Raiders pouring from their hangar bays. The Cylons had detected them, and were launching a full assault to destroy them once and for all.

"Now would be a good time to use that FTL," O'Neil advised, turning them away from the Cylon force and engaging full thrust.

Samantha turned her eyes back to the FTL console. The jump coordinates had already been programmed in. All that was required now was for her to trigger the jump...

"Frak!" she yelled.

O'Neil's head snapped around. "What is it?"

"FTL's down!" she replied. "We must have taken a hit when we were trying to escape."

"Can you fix it?"

She shook her head slowly. "The core's been compromised. There's nothing I can do, Rick."

O'Neil stared ahead at the darkness of space, realizing the futility of their situation at last. The Raiders were closing in - there was no way they could outrun them with sub-light engines. This was it. They were going to die.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered.

_He rose from the bed and moved over to kneel down next to her, staring into her eyes. "What did she mean when she said she'd see me again? Please, tell me. Will I see her?"_

_"If it's God's plan, if you deserve to survive that long, maybe you will. Do you deserve to survive, O'Neil?"_

The Raiders were almost on top of them now. They wouldn't fire missiles - they wouldn't take the chance that the Raptor could evade them. This one would end with cannon fire, up close and personal.

Without consciously realizing it, O'Neil reached out and grasped Samantha's hand. It was a simple gesture, a human gesture, but it meant so much.

Suddenly the young woman tensed up, staring at the DRADIS display in utter disbelief. "Oh my God!"

In an instant, the opening wave of Raiders were annihilated by a barrage of anti-aircraft fire. Flames and shrapnel blasted out in all directions, damaging and destroying more of the Cylon craft before they could evade.

Hardly believing what he was seeing, O'Neil jinked the controls so that the Raptor spun around to face their enemies, allowing them to see with their own eyes the carnage that was unfolding.

And then he saw it. Huge and imposing, scarred and ugly and indomitable, the vast hull of _Endurance_ sweeping past, illuminated by flashes as its weapons were unleashed. It was an awesome, terrifying, wonderous sight.

"Son of a bitch!"

*****

The mood in _Endurance's_ CIC was one of elation and fear as the command crew steered the immense warship into battle one more time.

"Baseships altering course towards us!" Greene reported. "You did it, sir!"

Starke stood watching the DRADIS plot as the Cylons quickly recovered from their sudden arrival. "Give them everything we have, Mr Harper," she ordered, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.

This was probably the most stupid, irresponsible decision she had ever made, but as far as she was concerned, there was no question of leaving O'Neil behind. They had made it this far together. And whether they stood or fell today, it would be together.

"All starboard batteries, shift your fire to Target Alpha Three," Harper spoke into his phone, having to raise his voice to be heard above the other voices in the room. "Fire at will!"

The Dreadnought's main starboard batteries flashed, sending scores of high explosive shells hurtling at the nearest Baseship. The projectiles tore into the Cylon vessel, crippling one of its main engines and forcing it to back away, trailing smoke and flame.

*****

In the Raptor, O'Neil's radio headset crackled into life. "_Endurance_ to Raptor One. You look like you could use some help."

Such was O'Neil's shock, he actually laughed. "Lieutenant, I ordered you to get out of here."

"With all due respect, sir, go frak yourself," she replied. "You can court-martial me if we live through this."

Despite everything, he couldn't help but smile. "I'll hold you to that!"

"The ventral hangar's wide open. We'll hold them off while you land, but I wouldn't hang around. It's going to get pretty ugly soon."

"Roger that! Raptor One, _en-route_!"

Lining up for a manual landing on the awkwardly positioned ventral hangar was no easy task at the best of times, but it certainly wasn't helped when he was being shot at by Cylon Raiders and the ship he was supposed to land on was being thrown around like a cruiser by its helmsman.

He twisted around in his seat to look at the passengers in the back. "Okay, we're going in hot! Everybody hang the frak on!"

There was no time for a conventional approach. Aiming for the small patch of light on Endurance's otherwise darkened hull, he did his best to ignore the battle raging all around and hit the throttle hard.

"You ever done this before?" Samantha asked as the immense ship loomed in front of them.

"Hell, no! You think I'm insane?"

"That's comforting."

They were almost there. Their closure speed was far above any safety limits, but there was nothing else to be done. Battlestars had sophisticated arrestor systems in their huge flight pods to allow combat landings. Dreadnoughts had nothing.

O'Neil braced himself as the Raptor hurtled through the open doors and the far wall of the hangar rushed forward to meet them. At the last moment, he applied full reverse thurst, jerking him forward in his chair.

The Raptor slammed into the far wall with enough force to destroy the forward manuevering thrusters and crumple the nose. Circuits and control systems shorted out, sending sparks flying, while caution and warning alarms blared in their ears.

O'Neil paid it no heed. They were alive; that was all that mattered now. The armoured hangar doors were already grinding closed behind them.

He turned to Samantha. "You okay?"

The young woman was pale and shaken, but looked more or less unharmed. "I'll live. But I don't ever want to do that again."

Hurriedly unstrapped himself, he hit the transmit button on his radio. "Raptor One is on the deck! Get us out of here!"

"Roger that!" Starke replied. The relief in her voice was tangible. "Standby to jump."

Suddenly Munro shouted from the crew compartment. "No! Don't jump us yet!"

"What are you talking about?" O'Neil demanded.

Munro looked at him, his eyes burning and intense. "Get me to the CIC, Rick."

"What the hell for?"

"I'm taking us home."

The older man frowned. "You're hurt. We need to get you to sickbay."

Munro shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. What matters is that I understand what I'm supposed to do now. I understand why She made me like this. You have to let me do this. Please!"

O'Neil gritted his teeth, torn in an agony of indecision. Finally he spoke. "Gods damn it, I knew this was gonna be a rough day. Come on, Sam, give me a hand here."

As they unstrapped the wounded man and hauled him to his feet, Drake manually opened the Raptor's outer hatch using the emergency release. The hydraulic mechanism was out of action.

As they jumped down onto the deck, a voice blared out over the ship's tannoy system. "This is the CIC. All hands, prepare for jump!"

Running across the hangar with Munro between them, O'Neil hit his transmit button again. "Hold that jump, Danielle! Stop the countdown!"

"What?" Starke demanded.

"There's no time to explain. We're on our way to the CIC now. Keep the FTL spooled up!"

"We're up against four Baseships, Rick!" she protested. "We can't hold out more than a few minutes."

O'Neil glanced briefly at Munro. "That's all the time we need."


	21. Home

Chapter 21 – Home

Starke braced herself, clutching the command console as another salvo of missiles impacted the hull. The structural beams around them groaned under the strain, and one of the instrument panels near Damage Control blew out. They were outnumbered four to one, and the old ship was taking a fearsome pounding.

"Tango Four moving to outflank us," Greene warned.

The Lieutenant glanced up at the DRADIS display. "Helm, new course… three five seven. Harper, do we have any missiles left in the port batteries?"

The young man scanned his weapons readouts. "Erm, yeah. Batteries Two and Five are still loaded."

"Prepare to fire all missiles. Target Tango Four with main and secondary gun batteries. Let me know as soon as you have a firing solution."

"Yes, sir!"

The CIC shook as more warheads slammed into the overtaxed armour belt. A moment later, an alarm sounded in Damage Control. "Sir, we have a coolant leak in the primary reactor!" Natasha Schmitt, the young ensign manning the station warned.

"Switch to backup!" Everyone in the room was looking to her for guidance and reassurance, and that she was just about the only thing holding them together. It was a heavy burden, but there was no one else.

"I have a firing solution!"

Once again she grabbed the console to steady herself. "Commence fire, all batteries!"

The great warship shook as her weapons were unleashed, punching a gaping hole in the Raider screen that swarmed all around. Chunks of shattered armour and bloody internal workings were thrown in all directions as the Raiders desperately tried to reform.

In the CIC, Starke could see the damage they had done on the DRADIS screens. She turned to Harper. "Fire all missiles."

_Endurance's_ missile launchers unleashed their full payload a moment later. A dozen missiles arced across the void between the two ships, striking the Baseship on its centre axis again and again. The Cylon vessel was no match for this punishment, and quickly disintegrated as internal fires and magazine explosions consumed it.

"Tango Four is down!" Greene said.

"And we just used up the last of our missiles," Starke said under her breath.

She was almost knocked off her feet by the next impact as more Cylon missiles continued to pound the old Dreadnought.

"Radiation warning!" Greene shouted. "There's a nuke in there somewhere!"

Starke turned to the Weapons Control station. "Harper, switch to fire cycle –"

She never got a chance to finish that sentence. The ship lurched violently as the nuclear missile detonated against her starboard armour belt. Consoles and lights blew out in the CIC, their electrical crackling mixed with frantic cries and the groan of overloaded metal.

"Report!" Starke yelled, picking herself up off the deck. At least one nuke had made it through. She wondered how badly they were hurt.

"Batteries Fifteen to Nineteen are out of action," Harper said grimly. "There's a fire near the forward magazine. I don't think the damage control teams can reach it."

"Hull breaches on decks five, six and eight!" Schmitt warned. "We have electrical dropouts in Frames Twenty-Five to Twenty-Nine. We need to cut power to the FTL drives or we'll lose the whole network."

"No!" Starke countered. "Seal off the damaged sections. Divert power from anywhere else, but keep that FTL spooled up. It's our only chance." Wasting no more time, she grabbed the phone that linked her to O'Neil's radio. "Rick, we can't hold out much longer! Where the frak are you?"

"Right here!"

Starke whirled around just as O'Neil staggered into the CIC, supporting a wounded Munro. But when her eyes locked on the woman following close behind, her hand went immediately to her side arm.

"No!" O'Neil yelled, holding a bloodied hand up. "Hold your fire! She's a friend!"

"She tried to kill you!" Starke protested.

"In another life," he said. "I'll explain later. Right now we need to get the frak out of here."

The woman holstered her pistol. "Couldn't agree more. What are you planning?"

O'Neil turned to Munro. "This is it, Danny. What do you need?"

The younger man coughed weakly, dripping blood onto the deck. He was succumbing to gunshot wound at last. "The… FTL console," he managed to say between ragged breaths.

"Help me!" O'Neil said, struggling over to the FTL console while supporting Munro. Samantha rushed forward to help, and together they carried him the last few metres.

"Radiation alarm!" Greene shouted. "They've just launched a full spread of nukes. Impact in twelve seconds."

"We can't survive another salvo," Starke said.

"Come on, Danny. We're here," O'Neil said, trying to urge his friend on. They had risked everything for this. "If you don't do something right now, we're all dead."

"Eight seconds!"

With a trembling hand, Daniel reached out and started punching numbers into the navigation console, his fingers leaving bloody smears on the buttons.

"Each of us are created for one purpose," he said, his voice barely audible over the chaos around him. "Our whole lives leading up to one moment."

"Five seconds! Whatever you're going to do, do it _now_!"

"And what we do in that moment defines us." With the last number inputted, he reached for the FTL key. But weakened by blood loss and pain, he lacked the strength to turn it.

"Two seconds to impact!"

"Jump us!" Starke shouted.

At the same moment, Rick and Samantha reached out, grabbed Daniel's hand and turned the key. There was a moment of sickening, disorienting helplessness as their bodies were pulled apart, and then they knew no more.

*****

His first sensation was one of pain. His ribs hurt, his chest hurt, his head ached, the flashes of pain pulsing in time to his heartbeat. Then he became aware of sounds – alarms, voices, panicked shouts.

He opened his eyes and the CIC swam into focus.

The place was in chaos. Lights flickered on and off, emergency alarms sounded, a blown out console burned and flashed, crewmen ran back and forth trying to help injured comrades. They were still alive, if only just.

He glanced down at the FTL console. It was offline, though the display indicated that it had discharged. But where had it taken them?

"Where have you taken us, Danny?" he asked. He almost had to struggle to remember how to speak. This jump had been different from any other he had ever experienced.

He looked down at Munro. The younger man was slumped back in the FTL console chair, staring up at the ceiling. His face was pale, his chest just barely rising and falling. With great effort, he turned his eyes toward his friend.

"Home," he whispered.

"Gods damn it," Rick said, his voice breaking. In all the chaos and desperation of those mad final minutes, he had almost forgotten how badly wounded his friend was. "Get a medic over here!"

Daniel smiled faintly and shook his head. "No need. I don't need help now."

"You're going to be all right, buddy," Rick said, knowing how hollow his words must have sounded. "You have to hang on."

"This future is yours now, Rick. Not mine," he replied. With the last of his strength, he managed to whisper one final sentence. "Don't waste it."

With that his eyes closed peacefully and his head tilted back. He was gone.

Rick closed his eyes for a moment. "Thank you, my friend," he whispered, feeling his eyes burning with tears.

Realizing he still had a ship (or what was left of one) to command, he wiped his eyes and looked up once more. "Schmitt, get me a damage report."

There was no response from the Damage Control centre. "Schmitt!"

Starke walked unsteadily over. The young woman was slumped on the deck, blood leaking from a head wound. "She's down. Get a medic over here!" Starke shouted. As the injured crew member was tended to, she turned her eyes to the status boards. "The superstructure's intact. We've got hull breaches in a dozen sections, but they're sealed off."

"Any fires?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Suppression systems are working." She looked up from the instrument panels. "I think we made it."

The ship's intercom crackled. "Chief Engineer here, sir. We've got to take the main reactor offline. It'll go critical if we don't shut it down."

O'Neil limped over to the command console and picked up the phone to connect him to engineering. "Very well, Chief. Switch to auxiliary power."

The lights flickered and dimmed for a moment before coming back up as the ship's grid transferred over to its emergency reserves.

"Where are we?" Samantha asked.

O'Neil glanced over at Greene, who was struggling to bring his navigation systems back online. "Lieutenant?"

"Trying to get a fix, sir." He was silent for several moments, and his face paled. "According to the navigation computers, we've jumped over a hundred thousand light years."

"A hundred thousand light years?" Starke gasped. "That's the other side of the galaxy."

O'Neil felt his heart leap. They were in uncharted space now. Who knew what was out here? "Can you give me a scan of this sector?"

"Working on it now." Quickly scanning his DRADIS screens, he looked up once more. "We're in a single-star system, and there's a planet nearby. I'm reading an atmosphere. Can't tell if it's breathable, but it's within the habitable zone."

A planet. He was starting to understand Munro's final words now. Home – a new home for their people, forever beyond the Cylon's reach. A chance to begin again. That was his friend's final gift to them.

"Helm, lay in a course and engage. Best speed you can manage."

With the slow, proud grace of a ship that had fought and won its final battle, the old battle-scarred Dreadnought limped through the void. Its hull was blackened, dented and buckled, but its armoured prow was still high and indomitable. Ahead lay the shining blue orb of a planet; new, unknown and unexplored.

With no further emergencies and no more battles to be fought, the mood in the CIC was more subdued now. O'Neil supposed he should have felt relief and elation at having escaped the Cylons, and being given the chance at a fresh start, but he couldn't dig up such an emotion at that moment. He was exhausted, both in body and spirit.

He looked over at Starke. The woman was leaning against the command console. He suspected she was feeling much like himself.

He moved over to her side and looked at her for a moment. She had changed so much from that first day when she'd come aboard as a raw recruit. Like the rest of them, the past three years had hardened her, forced her to dig deep down inside herself to find the strength to keep going.

Catching his glance, she looked at him and managed a weary smile. "Are you going to court martial me now, sir?" she asked.

He returned her grin. "You risked everything to come back for us."

The woman swallowed and nodded. "I couldn't leave you behind, Rick. I just couldn't."

He reached out and took her hand, then thought better of it and hugged her tightly, not caring who saw them. "I'll never forget what you did, Danielle," he whispered in her ear. "Never."

"Sir," Greene said, interrupting them.

Rick let go of her and turned towards the DRADIS console. "What is it?"

"We're close enough to get a good look with the external cameras."

He nodded. "Punch it up."

One of the screens overhead changed from a ship's status display to a slightly grainy image of the planet ahead. It wasn't great quality, but Rick could make out the shining blue expanse of oceans and the yellow and green of land masses.

"Oceans, vegetation…" Samantha said, staring at the screen in wonder. "The atmosphere's breathable. People could survive there." She glanced at Rick. "What are the odds of finding a habitable planet so far from home?"

Rick thought again about Daniel Munro. What had he known in those last few moments? How did he know the coordinates needed to bring them safely here? Where had this last revelation come from? Fate, luck… God?

He supposed he would never know. They were here now, and they were alive – maybe that was enough.

His thoughts were interrupted when a warning flashed across the DRADIS screens. Greene, sitting at the DRADIS console, was first to react. "Unidentified DRADIS contacts!"

Rick's heart sank. Surely the Cylons hadn't found them again? "Where?"

"They're in orbit around the planet, but they're…" He leaned closer. "What the frak?"

"What is it?" Samantha asked.

"I'm picking up transponder signals." He turned to face them. "They're Colonial."

Rick's eyes opened wider. "Colonial?"

And then, just like that, a voice sparked up on the ship's speakers. It was a man's voice, old and seasoned, deep and gravelly. Rick would have recognised it anywhere. "This is _Galactica _Actual. Identify yourself."


	22. A new beginning

Okay, this is it, everyone. This is the last chapter of my story. I've put a lot of work into this one, and I hope you enjoy it!

Thanks to everyone who has offered such supportive comments. This story was great fun to write, and I just hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing.

All the best.

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Chapter 22 – A new beginning

For a couple of seconds, Rick did nothing except stare at the speakers overhead, frozen in shock and amazement. Then, realizing _Galactica's_ commander was waiting for a reply, he picked up the phone.

"This is Colonial Dreadnought _Endurance_," he said.

There was a pause. "Did you say Dreadnought?"

Rick grinned, by now used to the surprise their ship elicited. "Yes, sir. We're transmitting recognition codes now." He pointed at Greene, indicating for him to transmit the codes. "I'd be obliged if you could do likewise."

There was another pause as the codes were authenticated. A few moments later, Greene nodded to confirm they were good. _Galactica's_ commander came back on the line, sounding a little less guarded this time. "Welcome back, _Endurance_. This is Admiral Adama. Who's the CO over there?"

"That would be me, sir. Richard O'Neil, acting Commander."

For several seconds, Adama said nothing, and Rick could guess why. He was trying to work out if this was the same Richard O'Neil that was responsible for the death of his son. "And how did you find your way out here, Mr O'Neil?"

"I could ask you the same question, sir. We've been out of the loop for a long time."

"Then we have a lot to talk about," Adama decided. "I suggest you come over here for debriefing. How soon can you be here?"

"Give us ten minutes, sir."

*****

A short time later, the Raptor left _Endurance_ with Rick, Starke and Samantha aboard. Ahead of them, orbiting high above the blue planet, was a fleet of civilian ships. He hadn't seen such a ramshackle collection of vessels since leaving the Tauron Shipyards. There were passenger liners, ore carries, transport ships of all shapes and sizes, and even a tylium processing vessel.

And in the centre of it all, huge and squat and imposing, sat _Galactica_. If he'd thought _Endurance_ was in bad shape, the old Battlestar was, if possible, even worse. Her hull was covered in scorch marks, burns, shell holes and structural failures. The entire starboard hangar pod was a mess of twisted steel and exposed beams, looking like it had been blasted out by some internal explosion. Most worrying of all, the ship appeared to be listing at an odd angle, as if her keel was twisted somehow.

"My Gods," Starke gasped, surveying the damage in amazement. "I can't believe she's still flying."

"Look," Samantha said, pointing off to starboard.

Rick followed her gaze, and felt his heart leap when he spotted the distinctive shape of a Cylon Baseship. For a moment, he was actually tempted to put in evasive maneuvers and get them out of there, but to his surprise, the Baseship appeared to be friendly. Civilian ships cruised right past as if there was nothing out of the ordinary to have a Cylon capital ship nearby.

"I can't wait to hear this one," Rick said as he lined up with _Galactica's_ port landing bay.

*****

A few minutes later, the three occupants of the Raptor took a deep breath as the external hatch opened up to reveal _Galactica's_ port hangar. A couple of old Mark II Vipers had been stripped down for repairs, and another Raptor sat further away. All were dented and scarred from many battles.

A Marine detail were standing at attention to receive them, along with what he presumed were the ship's senior officers, technicians and other crewmembers, all looking tired and strung out, but also relieved and proud. And in the centre stood Adama, his back straight, his craggy old face set like stone. He was flanked by a frail looking woman on his left. She was clearly ill, and unsteady on her feet. Her arm was linked with his, and he suspected she needed it just to stand.

On his right stood someone he'd never expected to see again, someone he had long ago written off as dead.

"Kara," he gasped, jumping down from the Raptor's wing. It was the first time he had seen her in nearly four years. Nothing could have prepared him for it.

The young woman's eyes met his, and he could see her struggling with similar emotions.

Remembering his official duty, Rick walked stiffly towards Adama and saluted. "Commander O'Neil requesting permission to come aboard, sir."

He had no idea what Adama's reaction would be, and the old man was keeping his cards close to his chest. The last time they'd seen each other had been at his Rick's court martial, and even then they hadn't spoken. But Rick remembered the look in the older man's cold blue eyes.

Adama returned the salute. "Permission granted," he said. Then, to Rick's surprise, he held out his hand. "Welcome aboard _Galactica_, Commander."

Rick took his hand and shook it. "It's an honour, sir."

Adama held his gaze for a moment longer, then broke off the handshake and gestured to the woman beside him. "This is Laura Roslin, President of the Colonial Fleet."

Rick's eyes opened wider. He had no idea the fleet had formed its own civilian government. "Madam President," he said, shaking her hand.

Her grip was surprisingly strong despite her obvious frailty. He wondered what was wrong with her, but knew this wasn't the time to ask. "Good to meet you, Commander," she said, her dark eyes flashing with warmth. "By the sounds of things, you've had quite an adventure."

"You don't know the half it, ma'am," he replied, unable to hide a smile. There was something immediately endearing about Roslin. He felt at ease around her as soon as they started talking.

"I presume you know Lieutenant Thrace already," Adama added with a raised eyebrow.

Rick turned to look at her. He'd focussed on Adama until now, trying not to let his emotions get in the way, but there was no holding back.

Her eyes shining with tears, Starbuck managed a smile and held out her hand. It was trembling. "Rick."

He reached out to take her hand, then hesitated. Frak it, he thought as he grabbed her and pulled her close. The woman returned the gesture in equal measure, hugging him with fierce intensity. His injured ribs protested, but he didn't care.

"I thought you were gone," she whispered, her voice husky with emotion.

"No such luck," he said, trying to lighten the mood, though he was struggling to keep his composure.

He pulled back a little to look at her. She was older than he remembered, not just in body but in spirit. She'd grown her hair longer, too. But it was more than that. Her clear blue eyes were filled with joy at seeing him again, but what lay behind them had changed somehow. It was impossible to say for sure, but on some level he sensed this wasn't the same Kara Thrace he'd once known.

"How the frak did you end up here?" she asked, still staring at him in amazement.

Before Rick could reply, Adama raised his voice to interrupt. "I think we should discuss that in private, Commander." He gestured to a corridor leading deeper into the ship. "Please, come with me."

*****

An hour later, in the Admiral quarters, Rick had at last finished his debriefing with Adama and Tigh. There hadn't been time to compose an official report, so his tale was fragmented and at times incomplete, but he'd at least been able to get across the important details.

"So that's what happened," he concluded. "We were moving in to investigate the planet when we found you."

His report complete, he glanced around, allowing himself to properly take in his surroundings. The room had been stripped of virtually everything that wasn't fixed down. Adama had already explained that _Galactica_ was to have been abandoned, and any serviceable equipment transferred to the Baseship. Instead, it had been taken on a near-suicide mission to rescue Hera from the Cylon Colony – a mission it had only barely survived because of Starbuck.

His suspicions about the ship's condition had proven all too true. She had been jumped in the heat of battle with her flight pods still extended - a move which was expressly forbidden for Battlestars. This, combined with metal fatigue, battle damage and sheer old age, had finally broken the old ship's back. She would never jump again.

Privately he wondered how long it would be before _Endurance _suffered the same fate.

For a few moments, silence descended on the room as the two older men mulled over everything they had heard.

"It's a frakker of a story, Bill," Tigh remarked in typical blunt fashion, taking a gulp of whisky. "Hard to believe a mothballed old tub like that could survive for three years."

"You did," Rick pointed out. If Tigh was out to insult _Endurance_, he could frak right off. That ship had carried them through everything the Cylons had thrown at them, had done everything asked of her and never once let them down.

Tigh glared at him for a moment with his one remaining eye, none too pleased at the implication that _Galactica_ was an 'old tub'. Still, he said nothing further on the matter.

Adama took a drink himself, a more measured sip, as he looked thoughtfully at Rick. "About your XO," he began. "Did he tell you anything else about himself before he died?"

Rick shook his head. "Only what I told you already – that he was one of eight human Cylon models, and that Cavil tried to destroy all the copies of him." He sighed. "I guess in the end he succeeded."

He took a drink himself. It had been a long time since he'd tasted whisky. "There _was_ one other thing. Just before he jumped the ship, he said he was taking us home. I have no idea how he knew to find this planet, but it couldn't just be a coincidence."

"Maybe," Adama agreed, his expression pensive. "We're sending scout teams down to survey the planet… assess whether it's suitable for colonisation."

At that moment, a faint shudder passed through the ship. The beams around them groaned as the metal flexed ever so slightly. Rick looked up, half expecting a hole to open up in the walls around them, but Adama and Tigh barely reacted to it. Maybe they were used to such things.

Still, it was clear that _Galactica_ was a dying ship.

"Saul, why don't you go relieve Helo in the CIC," Adama suggested.

The XO shot Adama a meaningful look, the kind only shared by people who have known each other a long time, then drained the last of his drink and stood up.

He looked at Rick and, in a rare expression of emotion, said. "However the frak you ended up here, I'm glad someone else made it out. I only wish we'd had you with us when this all started."

With that, he turned and left, closing the hatch behind him.

Alone with the Admiral, Rick was starting to feel uncomfortable. "I'd better get back to _Endurance_, sir. See how the repairs are going," he said, setting his drink down and standing up.

"Wait," Adama said. It was somewhere between an order and a request. Rick turned to look at him. "There's something I need to say to you." He sighed. "I know you and I have a history."

Shit. He'd known this was going to come up sooner or later, but that didn't mean he had to like it. In fact, after everything they'd been through, he was in no mood to reopen old wounds now. "Sir, I don't…" he began.

Adama held his hand up to silence him. He rose to his feet, looking Rick straight in the eye. "I always blamed you for my son's death. I couldn't see past it, I was blinded by it. When I was sitting that court room four years ago, I'd have given everything I had to see you executed." He swallowed, and for the first time, Rick saw a glimmer of emotion in that craggy old face. "They were going to acquit you; the board of Admirals. They said there was no real evidence of negligence on your part, but I… couldn't let it go. I knew most of them personally, so I saw to it that you were found guilty."

Rick stared at him in shock. He'd never known they were going to clear him of all charges.

"The truth is, I was wrong about you," the old man went on. "What happened to Zac wasn't your fault. I know that now. You were a good officer with a promising career, and you didn't deserve what happened to you."

"How… how did you know?" he asked, barely able to get the words out.

"You sure you want to ask that question? You might not like the answer," Adama warned.

"Try me."

Adama raised his glass and took a deep pull on the whisky. "Starbuck. She told me the truth. She was Zac's instructor in flight school. She had her doubts about him, but she couldn't bring herself to wash him out, so she passed him." He sighed. "He wasn't qualified to fly a Viper. That's why he crashed that day."

Rick could hardly believe what he was hearing. Out of everyone, he would have trusted Starbuck with his life. He had taken responsibility for Zac's death, had sacrificed his career, had lived with the guilt of it for years...

"I know what you must be feeling right now. I'd ask you to let it go, but I guess that's your call. As for myself… I can only ask you to forgive me," Adama said.

Of all the things he'd expected William Adama to say, it hadn't been this. He should have felt angry at the old man for abusing his power and influence. And yet, no such emotion stirred in him. What could he be angry for? A grieving father wanting to take revenge for his son's death? In some part of his mind, he knew he'd have done the same thing in that situation.

"I wouldn't be here now if you hadn't done what you did," he said at last. "I don't forgive you, because there's nothing to forgive. Whatever happened in our old lives… it's over now."

Adama nodded slowly. "Thank you."

As Rick grabbed the hatch lever to open it, Adama spoke up again. "There's one more thing. Your XO... Daniel. There's someone I think will want to talk to you about him."

*****

Taking a deep breath, Rick pulled back the blanket that covered Daniel Munro's body. Like so many of their dead, they had laid him in one of _Endurance's_ empty storage bays, ready for burial.

As soon as Ellen Tigh caught sight of the young man lying cold and pale on the floor, she bowed her head, silent tears rolling down her cheeks to fall on his body.

Rick stood by, unsure whether to comfort her or let her deal with it in her own way.

"He was my son," she said, then reached out and gently stroked his cheek. "My son."

"I know this must be hard for you," he said, his own voice husky with grief. "I understand the two of you were close."

She swallowed and nodded. "He wasn't like my other children. They were all special in their own way, but... I made Daniel capable of so much more. I gave him an understanding, a perception of things that no one else could sense. Out of all of them, he was the only one who truly accepted me." She shook her head in grief. "We could have done so much together."

Rick sighed and leaned a little closer. "I'll give you some time alone," he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "Take as long as you need."

"No," she said, lifting her tear-streaked face up to face him. "Tell me about him. Tell me what kind of man he was. I want to know. Please."

Rick glanced away for a moment, trying to compose his thoughts. "He was... He was optimistic, funny..." He smiled, thinking about the man, the Cylon, that he had called a friend. "Always making bad jokes at the wrong time. He was reliable, and honourable. He was my friend." He looked at her, his own eyes shining with tears. "And three hundred and ninety-two people are alive today because of Daniel."

Fresh tears started to well up. She leaned forward and kissed her son gently on the forehead. "I'm proud of you, Daniel."

*****

Rick sighed, closed his eyes and turned his face towards the clear blue sky, just revelling in the sheer joy of feeling sun and wind on his skin, and solid earth under his feet. It had been so long since he had set foot on a habitable planet, the notion was almost unfamiliar.

This planet had been everything they had hoped for and more. Its oceans were teeming with fish, its continents rich in wildlife and vegetation, its climate warm and forgiving. It was all they could ask for in a new home.

But more than that, they had discovered that they weren't the only humans here. Their scouting parties had discovered scattered tribes of primitive people. They were hunter-gatherers, probably with no more than the rudimentary beginnings of spoken language, or so Doctor Baltar asserted. But they were human.

What were the odds of finding another human civilisation a hundred thousand light years from the Colonies?

His thoughts were interrupted by Admiral Adama's call. "Commander O'Neil!"

Rick opened his eyes, the mood broken for the time being, and walked over to join him. He and Lee had been off walking together, and by the sound of things, they had reached some kind of decision. "Yeah?"

"Walk with me," Adama said.

Rick did as suggested. Their path followed the course of a small river, taking them away from the small cluster of tents that had served as their base camp since making planet-fall.

It was a while before the old man spoke, but Rick didn't press him. Adama was a man who liked to approach things in his own time.

"We've decided to start colonising," he said at last. "We won't find a better place than this."

Rick nodded. "Couldn't agree more. I was talking with Romo Lampkin earlier. He thinks we can have the beginnings of a city laid out within a few weeks. _Endurance_ has seen better days, but I guess she can still patrol this system until we build more ships..."

At this, the old man shook his head. "There won't be any cities, Rick. Or ships. Not this time. This time it's going to be different."

Rick frowned. "What do you mean?"

Adama sighed wearily. "Every time humans settle a new planet, the same thing happens. Technology gets the better of us... we keep rushing ahead without seeing where we're going, and the cycle keeps repeating itself. We can't let that happen again." He glanced around at the river and the lush grassland beyond. "I think we deserve a fresh start. All of us."

"But technology is what our whole civilisation is built on," Rick protested. "If we abandon it, everything we've accomplished in the last thousand years will mean nothing. We'll be right back at the bottom of the pile again, struggling just to survive. We'll have to start over."

"We've been struggling to survive for three years. And as for starting over..." Adama turned to look at him. "Isn't that the way it should be?"

Rick swallowed. "What about _Endurance_? And _Galactica_?"

The old man sighed, and Rick saw real grief in his eyes. "They're warships without a war. There's nothing left for them. They've earned their rest."

*****

In _Galactica's_ sickbay, Rick found himself staring at the curtain surrounding Roslin's bed. It was open just a little, allowing him a glimpse of one slender arm with IV lines snaking into it.

"You need something?" Doctor Cottle asked, framing it more as a challenge than a question.

Rick nodded towards the bed. "How long does she have?"

The old doctor shrugged as if it was of no consequence, but Rick could sense the grief in him. "Days… A week, maybe. We're giving her medication for the pain, but it's just a matter of time."

"Can I talk to her?"

"You can't stay too long," Cottle warned him gruffly. "She gets tired quickly, so don't overtax her."

Rick nodded, and Cottle walked towards the bed to let her know she had a visitor. When he returned a minute later, he did nothing but point towards the bed.

He couldn't tell if she had been sleeping, but she looked deathly tired. Still, she managed to smile in greeting as he approached and sat down.

"Commander O'Neil."

"Madam President," he said, taking a seat by the bed. "You asked to see me."

She smiled patiently, like a teacher dealing with a dim student. "You can call me Laura."

"Laura," he repeated. "Can I get you anything? Is there something you need?"

She shook her head. "I have everything I need."

Rick said nothing. He was confused as to why she had called him here, but he sensed she would broach the subject in her own time. The woman was dying – he was prepared to humour her.

"Let me ask you something. Did you have any brothers or sisters?" she said at last.

He frowned, bemused by the question, but shook his head. "No."

"I did. Two sisters." She coughed before going on. "They were killed in a car crash before the attacks on the Colonies. And do you know my biggest regret? I never got a chance to say goodbye to them. It's the things we _don't_ say that we regret most."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Again that patient smile. "Bill told me what happened between you and Kara. I can see why you'd be angry, and why you feel betrayed, but don't end up like me. Don't leave things unsaid, Rick."

He swallowed hard. "It's not that easy."

She reached out and gripped his arm. "It is if you want it to be."

*****

Once again, Rick found himself in the exercise room on _Endurance_, circling around the heavy punching bag without throwing a punch. He had returned to _Galactica_ after his meeting with Roslin, not really knowing what he was planning to do now.

The repairs were proceeding well, for what it was worth. The worst of the hull breaches had been sealed up, and the Chief Engineer was fairly sure they would have the main reactor back online within a day or two. Rick hadn't had the heart to tell them of Adama's intentions.

He'd spent so long imagining what it would be like to find a new home, but he'd never really given much thought to what would happen to _Endurance_ when he did. As hard as it was to admit it, part of him didn't want to leave her. He felt like he was losing an old friend.

"Frak!" he snapped, throwing a hard right hook. The bag shuddered and swayed under the impact.

"Getting rusty," a woman's voice chided him.

Rick felt himself tense up. "I'm busy," he said without turning around.

"You want a sparring partner?"

"I train alone."

"You seem to do everything alone."

He spat on the floor. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Starbuck moved forward into his line of sight. "It means you've been avoiding me," she said, staring at him searchingly. "I want to know why."

He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. "You don't want to know."

"Yeah, Rick, I do."

Only then did he turn his eyes on her. They were burning with hurt and anger. As hard as he'd tried, he just couldn't get past what Adama had told him about her. "Is it true? What the old man told me?"

She swallowed, the muscles in her throat moving up and down. She said nothing. She didn't have to.

"Then we've got nothing to say to each other," he said, turning around and laying into the bag with lefts and rights, each punch delivered with more anger than the one before.

"Rick, I didn't..."

Suddenly he rounded on her, muscles burning with tension. "Leave, Kara. You picked the wrong guy, and the wrong day. I'm not going to say it again."

The woman opened her mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it. Without saying another word, she unbuttoned her tunic, slipped it off and dumped it on the floor, then strode over to an equipment locker and returned with a pair of boxing gloves.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"You won't talk to me? Fine," she said through gritted teeth as she slipped the gloves on. "But you're frakking well gonna listen. We have unfinished business, you and me."

"Are you -"

He never got a chance to finish. Kara's right hand swept around and caught him square on the jaw, snapping his head sideways and almost knocking him off his feet. He staggered a few feet to the right before regaining his balance. He turned to see her glaring at him, her muscles taut and ready for fighting.

"You owe me one more round, Rick," she said. "I want it. Now!"

"Forget it. I'm done with this," he said, using every ounce of his willpower to hold his anger in check.

In response, she swung again, catching him with a left hook that opened a small cut over his eye. "Fight me, you frakking coward!" she yelled, her eyes burning with rage. "Are you afraid? Afraid you might hurt me? Or afraid I might beat you?"

That was it for him. In that instant, something snapped inside him, and he went straight at her. There was no thought of dodging and weaving, looking for openings to exploit. He charged at her, drew back his fist and slammed it into her with such ferocity that she was knocked backward, falling to her knees.

"_It was my fault," he said at last. "I never should have taken him in with me. He was green." _

_Starbuck sat on the opposite side of the room. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were wet and red. "He was trained for this. He should have known what to do."_

_He shook his head. "It was my call." He looked at her. "I'm so sorry." _

_Starbuck said nothing. _

"Why, Kara?" he yelled. "Gods damn you! Of all people, I trusted you! You ruined my life!"

Gritting her teeth, Kara pulled herself to her feet and came at him. He blocked a left hook, but a right cross sailed in over his guard and caught his left cheek a glancing blow. She followed up with a punch to his injured ribs that doubled him over in agony.

"Is that it? Is that all you have?" she demanded, standing over him, willing him to get up. "Get up, Gods damn it!"

"_However, we must also take into account your service record, which has been impeccable up to this point. Therefore, it is with some regret that this court hereby passes sentence. You are to be demoted to the rank of Lieutenant, and your status as a Viper pilot revoked until further notice. This incident will be entered into your service record. Dismissed."_

_O'Neil felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He saluted the board of three admirals, then turned towards the rest of the court. Starbuck was there, her face tight with carefully repressed emotion. Only her eyes shone with sadness and regret. _

Ignoring the pain, Rick pulled himself to his feet again. Once more the two fighters closed in on each other and attacked, lashing out with wild punches, barely even trying to protect themselves. This was a slugging match, and it was just a question of who could take more punishment.

Breathing hard, covered in sweat, he swung a clumsy right that almost put her down again. But slowed by fatgue, he couldn't block her counter. White light exploded through his brain and stars danced across his vision as her left fist hit him on the temple. His legs threatened to give way beneath him, but somehow he found the strength to draw back his arm one last time and land a cross to her jaw.

She fell to her knees, and he went down a moment later. His vision was blurred by sweat, or tears - he didn't know. She was struggling to get up, using one arm to support herself.

"Why?" he finally managed to ask. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She spat, leaving bloody phlegm on the floor. "I was... afraid."

"Afraid of being court martialled?"

"No." She shook her head, still gasping for breath. "Afraid of you. Afraid of Adama. He was..." Her voice broke, and he could see tears in her eyes. "He was the closest thing I ever had to a father. I couldn't do it to him. I couldn't live with it, knowing he hated me. So let you take the rap for me." She looked at him, bruised and bloodied, eyes filled with grief. "I'm sorry, Rick. For everything."

Hesitating just a moment, he pulled off his glove and held his hand out to her. She did likewise and clasped it tight. They said nothing, because there was no need. They understood each other, they accepted each other, they forgave each other, and in that moment it was enough.

*****

All eyes turned to Rick when he walked into the CIC some time later. It wasn't so much that they were expecting some big announcement, but it was obvious from the expression on his face and the set of his jaw that he had something important to say.

With his back held stiff, he walked over to the command console and lifted the phone, keying in One MC to address the entire ship.

"Crew of the _Endurance_, may I have your attention," he began, using the same address he had used to many times before. But this wasn't to be a rallying cry for battle. This was going to be something very different. "We've had a long journey together. It's been a hard journey at times, and more than once it felt like there was no end in sight. But our days of wandering are over. We've found a new home for our people now, and we're going to do what we can to make it a good one."

He glanced at Samantha, who had moved over to stand next to him. She gave him a smile, tentative, but reassuring.

"_Endurance_ has brought us this far. She's carried us safely through more battles than I can remember, but her journey too is over. She's earned her rest, so effective immediately, we're stopping all repairs on the ship. Crew and provisions will begin transferring down to the surface tomorrow morning. Once everyone's off, _Endurance_ will be set to automatic control along with the rest of the fleet, and piloted into the sun."

He heard more than a few gasps of shock and surprise around the room.

He sighed and looked down for a moment. "I know this isn't an easy thing to face up to. _Endurance_ has been more than just a ship for us. She's been our home, our guardian and protector for three years, but now it's time to lay her to rest. That is all."

Half an hour later, Rick was in his quarters. He looked around the familiar room that had been his home for three years. He had once viewed this place as a prison where he would languish for the remainder of his career. Not any more.

His eyes rested on the bottle of whisky on the table before him. He hadn't drunk any of it yet.

He glanced up when his door opened and Starke walked into the room. "You asked to see me, sir?"

"Take a seat, Lieutenant," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite.

Starke did as he asked. When she'd sat down, he reached into his pocket, produced a small plastic box like one might use to hold a wedding ring, and slid it across the table to her.

"This is for you," he said.

Frowning in surprise, the woman reached out and opened it. Inside was the gold insignia of a colonel.

"I need a new XO," Rick said as he poured two glasses of whisky. "I can't think of anyone better than you, Danielle."

She closed her eyes for a moment, her grip tightening on the box. He could see tears glistening between her blonde lashes.

"I know it doesn't mean much now, but…"

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "It does to me."

Rick nodded, then handed one of the glasses over to her. "This is my last bottle. I was saving it for a special occasion, and I can't think of anything more appropriate than this. Congratulations, Colonel Starke," he said, raising his glass in a toast. They both took a drink, then a silence descended between them.

"Hard to believe we're really going to do this," Danielle said at last. "Abandoning ship. It almost feels like we're losing part of ourselves."

Rick took another gulp of whisky, inexplicably reminded of a day that felt like a lifetime ago. "When this all started, I said that _Endurance_ deserved better than rotting away in a scrap yard. She deserved to go out on her feet, proud and defiant." He sighed. "She got what she deserved."

Starke nodded thoughtfully, then raised her glass. "To _Endurance_."

"To _Endurance_," Rick said, holding his own glass up. "Best frakking ship I ever served on."

With that, they paid their last respects to the old ship.

*****

_Dreadnought Endurance_

_Ship's Log – Final Entry_

_Richard O'Neil commanding_

_Vessel secured and preparing to leave orbit for the last time. All personnel have been transferred to the surface of the planet we are now calling Earth. _

_In time we will forget the name Endurance. We will forget what she did, and the people who served, fought and died aboard her. But perhaps through us, and our future generations, some part of her legacy will live on. _

_This ship and her crew have performed in keeping with the highest traditions of the Colonial Fleet. She has lived up to her name and more. It has been my honour to command her. _

_Richard O'Neil, Commander. _

With his last entry made, Rick closed the ship's log book and rose from his desk. Casting one last glance around his now empty room, he walked slowly through the hatch before closing and securing it behind him.

The walk to the CIC was a familiar one, and he took his time. There was no rush now.

All of the command crew had since departed. The only ones who remained behind were Samantha, Starke, Greene and Harper.

"Automatic pilot is set, sir," Starke said. There was no need for such formalities now, but she felt the need to do things properly. "Computers are tied into _Galactica's_ systems. Sub-light engines standing by."

"Very well, XO," he replied.

"Requesting permission to leave the ship, sir," she said, though her voice wavered a little as she spoke.

Rick exhaled slowly, glancing around the now quiet and darkened CIC for the last time. With nobody left to man them, most of the consoles had been powered down. "Permission granted," he said at last. "Let's go home."

As the others filed out, he stopped for a moment by the bulkhead, reached out and touched the metal frame. "Thank you."

*****

Rick halted for a moment, staring out across the great plains stretching from horizon to horizon, at the endless blue sky above. Small groups of people were walking across the grassland, making for the hills in the distance where they would found a settlement. They had been his crew in another life, his responsibility to lead and command, but now they were just people – nothing more, nothing less.

He had already said his goodbyes to Adama, Roslin and Kara. They had settled a few hundred miles to the north, but somehow he sensed he wouldn't be seeing them again. He had made his peace with Kara Thrace, and that was enough for him.

"I guess this is where we go our separate ways, sir," Starke said.

Rick smiled and turned to face her. "Danielle, I'm not an officer any more. And neither are you."

The woman blushed and grinned. "Old habits die hard." She glanced away for a moment. "You sure I can't persuade you to come with us? They might need a leader, and you've done an okay job so far."

"Okay, huh?" he said with a grin, then shook his head. "No, I'm done with leading people. They'll do just fine without me."

"Where will you go?"

"I'll find a place. Maybe near the sea. I grew up next to the ocean on Caprica… used to fall asleep to the sound of the waves at night." He smiled at the memory. "That doesn't sound like a bad way to live, does it?"

"No. Not too bad at all."

"Will you be okay?" he asked.

Unconsciously Starke glanced over at Harper, who was standing not far away. Rick could see the bond that was developing between them, and he didn't doubt that it would soon turn into something more. "I'll be okay."

He reached out and hugged her tight. "Good look, Danielle."

"And you," she said, blinking back tears. "Goodbye."

With that, they parted ways at last, and Rick walked over to join Samantha. She had waited patiently while he said his goodbyes.

She smiled as he approached. "Are you ready?"

His hand found hers, and together they turned east towards the rising sun. "I'm ready."


End file.
